


The Archer and the Prey

by atetheredmind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Westeros, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Inspired by The Hunger Games, Love Triangle, Science Fiction, Teenage Rebellion, lots of secondary character deaths, teenage angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 64,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23497696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atetheredmind/pseuds/atetheredmind
Summary: To save her 12-year-old niece Rhaenys from certain death, Daenerys Targaryen volunteers to take her place in the 74th Hunger Games. With a drunk for a mentor, her chances of survival are slim. But she's smart, and she's fast, and she's good with a bow. She'll do whatever she can to win and get back home to Winterfell.There's just one little hitch: her tribute partner is Jon Snow. The boy who already saved her life once before.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 479
Kudos: 958
Collections: Jonerys Remix 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Jonerys Remix 2020 and inspired by The Hunger Games/Everlark. In this fic, Dany is Katniss and Jon is Peeta. Fair warning, Daario is in this fic (though really only in the first chapter) and takes the role of Gale here. It's the same "love triangle" from the original story, but to a much lesser degree. Let's try to be adults about this :)
> 
> Thanks to aliciutza for bet'aing and making the gorgeous moodboard! And thank you to LadyTarg for the lovely Dany edit!

* * *

When Dany awakes, it’s not yet dawn. The room is still dark, and she shivers, turning over to find the spot where Rhaenys normally sleeps empty and cold to the touch. She must have gotten up in the middle of the night and climbed into Rhaella’s bed.

Probably couldn’t sleep because she was worried about what the morning would bring: her first Reaping.

Dany is worried, too. It’s her fifth year in the Reaping, but it never gets easier. It’s always difficult to sleep the night before, wondering whether it might be your last night in your own bed. Ever since she turned 12, she’s known that terror. And now that her niece is old enough to qualify for the Reaping, Dany has more than just herself to worry about.

Unable to fall back to sleep, she gets up. Might as well start the day now. She dresses in the dark, moving silently as she puts on her boots and Rhaegar’s old hunting jacket. The leather is supple and worn and way too big for her, but it’s one of the only things she has left of her brother. After gathering her hair into its usual braid, she leaves the room she shares with Rhaenys and checks her mother’s room. Inside, Dany can just make out the silhouettes of Rhaella and Rhaenys, cocooned together in her mother’s bed, fast asleep. Satisfied, she quietly shuts the door and heads for the front door. Balerion, Rhaenys’ prickly black cat, is perched on the back of the couch, his yellow eyes following her like he’s the sentinel of the house. As she passes him, he hisses, and she hisses back. His ears flatten against his head, chastened, and he jumps to the floor to scurry away.

The bastard cat doesn’t like anyone but Rhaenys, ever since she brought him home as a stray kitten, emaciated and ravaged by fleas, after finding him outside the Holdfast. His hate for Dany is probably warranted, given how she thought it would actually be a mercy to kill him; as it was, she already had enough trouble feeding herself, Rhaenys and Rhaella, and a cat would just be another mouth to feed. But Rhaenys cried and begged and pleaded until Dany finally relented. At least, Balerion proved efficient at feeding himself while also taking care of the vermin in their little house. And he makes Rhaenys happy, which is all that matters.

Smiling to herself, Dany celebrates her meaningless victory against Balerion and heads for the front door, grabbing her hunting bag, already packed with a gift from Rhaenys, off the floor. She hugs it close to her side as she leaves the house to make the familiar trek through Wintertown, the little village where she lives on the outskirts of Winterfell, to the edge of the wolfswood. None of the guards are awake to stop her; not that they would stop her even if they were, but it’s easier for them to turn a blind eye to her criminal activities as long as they don’t actually see her committing them. She’s often their only source of fresh meat, so they’re happy to play dumb.

By the time she reaches the wolfswood, the sun is beginning to dawn, affording her enough light to squeeze under a hole in the chain link fence. It used to be electrocuted, a precautionary measure to keep the residents inside as much as it kept the predators out, but over the years Winterfell, and all of the North, gradually fell into disrepair, largely neglected by the Crown. Until it comes time for the annual Hunger Games, that is. Once they have their pound of flesh, the North is tossed aside and forgotten about once again—until the next year. Then the cycle repeats.

Once she’s beyond the fence, Dany moves through the woods, sure-footed and silent, knowing just where to step so as not to disturb the creatures of the woods as they, too, begin to stir. She finds the log where she always stashes the bow Rhaegar crafted for her by hand years ago. He was the one who taught her how to hunt, how to fish, how to forage for food—before he died in a horrific coal mine explosion when she was only 11, and their mother slipped into a fog of depression, leaving Dany, still a child herself, as the sole provider for their family of three. It took years for her to become as comfortable and confident as she is in the woods today.

Luckily, she has help.

Her friend, Daario, is waiting for her when she finally reaches their usual meeting place, a rocky ledge overlooking a valley in the woods. Like her, Daario lives in Wintertown. It’s still technically a part of Winterfell, but it’s the poorest neighborhood of an already poor town. His father died in the same mine explosion that killed her brother, but Daario is a year older than her. He also has more people to take care of, including four siblings and his mother. He’s not an archer like she is; while she hunts with a bow, he’s a whiz with snares, and when they’re out here at the mercy of the wolfswood, they always have each other’s back. They’ve come to rely on each other. He’s her only friend, truthfully.

At the sight of him now, she smiles. He and Rhaenys are the only people she feels like she can be herself with.

When he spots her, he stands to greet her. Holding up a loaf of bread, he grins. “Look what I caught.”

Laughing, she takes it from him. It’s still warm. She holds it to her nose and inhales the yeasty scent of it, her mouth watering. “It’s fresh. You must have gotten up early for this. What did it cost you?”

He shrugs as he sits back down. She joins him. “Just a squirrel. I think the baker must have been feeling sentimental this morning.”

That sobers her slightly. Everyone always feels just a bit nicer on Reaping Day, but the baker, Mr. Stark, has always been more than fair when trading with them.

Opening her bag, Dany retrieves the cheese Rhaenys left for her the night before, made from her goat she named Aegon (despite Dany’s light admonition that Aegon is a boy’s name). Taking a moment to eat, she and Daario split the bread and the cheese and savor the small indulgence as they watch the sun rise. After a moment of comfortable silence, Daario looks to her with a droll smile.

“Almost forgot to tell you. Happy Hunger Games.”

Dany wants to return his dark humor, as she usually does, but today she finds she can’t. Not while knowing, for the first time, a slip of paper with Rhaenys’ name joins her own in the Reaping bowl. Daario has more slips than even Dany, but none of his siblings are old enough to qualify for the Reaping yet.

He seems to understand this, at least. “How is Rhaenys taking it?”

She shrugs, keeping her gaze trained on the skyline. “She couldn’t sleep last night. I found her in my mother’s bed this morning. She hasn’t done that since the days after Rhaegar’s death.”

He nods, and they fall into silence once more. When he speaks next, he sounds more urgent. “We could do it, you know.”

“What?”

“Leave. Run off into the woods, like we always talked about. Go north. They’d never find us.”

As tempting as the offer is, Dany shakes her head. “You know I can’t do that. I can’t leave Rhaenys behind, no more than you can leave your siblings behind.”

“We could bring them with us,” he says, but he sounds less sure now.

“There’s too many of them,” she reminds him. “We couldn’t take care of them all on our own.”

“I know,” he says miserably. Even if they took their mothers with them, it would be too much. They would need as much protection as the children.

Dany sighs, drawing her knees to her chest. “I’m never having kids.”

Daario pulls at a long blade of grass, ripping it out of the ground. “I might,” he says, surprising her. At her look, he amends, “If I didn’t live here.”

“But you do,” she points out, too sharply, and he rolls his eyes at her, clearly agitated.

“I know that. Just forget it.”

She doesn’t understand where this is coming from. She thought they were of the same mind. An unspoken pact. Not that he meant he wanted kids with _her_ , of course; despite what their classmates might think, there’s nothing romantic between her and Darrio, even if, sometimes, he gives her a look or makes a comment that makes her wonder…

But bringing any more children into this world, to potentially be reaped and killed in the Hunger Games, or to die in the mines or of starvation in Winterfell—Dany can’t bear the thought. No, she would never have children. She would never doom another child to this kind of life of misery and fear. It’s hard enough knowing Rhaenys must suffer through it.

After a tense moment, Daario stands and wipes his hands off on his pants. He acts as if their tense discussion never happened. “So, what should we do today? Hunt? Fish?”

Dany thinks it over. “Let’s check the snares. Then we can go to the lake and fish.”

They spend the next few hours in the woods, filling their game bags with fish and rabbits and berries. Then they return to the district and make for the Holdfast, Wintertown’s black market where they trade most of their poached game for other things they need. After they’re done, they part at the entrance of Wintertown, Daario squeezing her hand. “May the odds be ever in your favor,” he wishes her with a grim smile. He repeats the words the loathsome escort for the North, Varys, will declare in just a couple hours, in his strange Southron accent, just as he does every year when he travels from King’s Landing to read the names of the chosen tributes at the Reaping.

Back at her house, Dany finds her mother and Rhaenys awake and getting ready for the Reaping. Rhaenys is fresh from a bath, her black hair wet and combed. She looks nothing like the rest of them; she doesn’t even look like her father, Rhaegar. Instead, she takes after her similarly dark-haired, dark-eyed mother, Elia, who died giving birth to her. Not even Rhaella, the daughter of an apothecary with an extensive knowledge of natural remedies, could do anything for the woman once the sepsis set in.

Rhaella has already refreshed the bath with clean water for Dany. She quickly strips naked and climbs into the tub to scrub up. Once her hair is completely rinsed of suds, she dries off and retreats to her and Rhaenys’ room to find her mother laying out one of her old dresses on the bed for her. It’s soft and red, the color slightly faded after many washes and years of wear. Dany imagines her mother dressed in it for her own Reapings.

“Thank you,” she says. Her mother smiles sadly at her.

“Your other dress is a bit too small for you now.” She shoos her on. “Go on. I’ll braid your hair after you’re done.”

Once Dany is dressed, Rhaella sits her down in a chair and weaves her silver hair into an intricate braid, pinning the plaits in place around the crown of her head. Rhaenys watches from her spot on the floor, enraptured. “You look beautiful,” Rhaenys says in awe, her voice barely a whisper, and Dany smiles at her.

“Come here. I’ll braid your hair, too.” She doesn’t have her mother’s deft braiding skills, so she settles for dividing Rhaenys’ hair into two braided pigtails. Her niece is quiet, unusually so, and Dany knows she’s scared, as the hour of the Reaping grows closer. Her own hands are beginning to shake, and she has to start the braids over to get them right.

 _Her name is only in there once_ , she reminds herself. Still, once she’s finished with Rhaenys’ hair, she hugs her tightly, her eyes welling despite her own half-hearted reassurances.

They eat a generous lunch made of the fish Dany and Daario had caught that morning, turned into a hearty stew. Around one o’clock, the three of them head to the Justice Building in the heart of Winterfell; at two, the Reaping will begin, and the tributes will be chosen. Dany holds Rhaenys’ hand, and her niece clings to her side as they shuffle through the growing crowd. There are more people gathered here today than normally live in Winterfell, having to travel from across the North to be present at the Reaping. The North is large but the population sparse; as with every other region in Westeros, only two tributes will be chosen from among every town and village in the North. Winterfell, as the epicenter of the region, always hosts the Reaping, led by the commander of the North, Jeor Mormont, a grizzly and sullen man. The City Guard is out in full force today; they stand everywhere, armed with guns, herding the crowd toward the Justice Building.

When it’s time to separate. Rhaella hugs them both fiercely, her eyes shining.

“We’ll see you afterward,” Dany promises her mother, then she hugs Rhaenys one last time before directing her to the pen where the other 12 year olds wait, looking like terrified prey. Dany joins her fellow 16 year olds, then she looks around, trying to crane her head over the crowd. Eventually, she spots Daario, who stands almost a head taller than the other 17 year olds. Dany lifts a hand in a wave. He merely nods in acknowledgement, no trace of a smile on his face now. Even his normal bluster and humor fail him the moment of the Reaping. _You’ll be fine_ , she wants to tell him, but she knows he has more slips of paper in the bowl than anyone else. The chances of him being chosen aren’t at all out of the realm of possibility.

Eventually, the ceremony starts, and Commander Jeor Mormont walks on stage, accompanied by Varys. The man looks as absurd as he always does, his bald head baby bottom-smooth and stenciled in tacky temporary tattoos, his colorful robes an eyesore among the muted scenery of a town perpetually coated in a thin layer of coal dust. Every year, he’s dressed nearly the same, but his tattoos change to reflect whatever the current fashion is in King’s Landing. Judging by the designs on his head, spiders and birds must be all the rage these days.

Commander Mormont speaks first, dully reciting his usual spiel about the history of the so-called Long Night, which in reality dragged out for months, when the regions rebelled against the Crown before being thoroughly crushed, which then led to the creation of the Hunger Games to keep the regions in check and dissuade them from rising up in the future. Then Mormont goes through the rules of the games. It’s the same speech every year; Dany finds her attention drifting, her underarms growing sweaty under the midday sun. The North is normally cold ten months out of the year, but the Reaping falls in their small window of spring-like temperatures. She feels like cattle awaiting slaughter with the rest of the livestock, the awareness of approaching doom a thick current rippling through the crowd as they shift anxiously.

Soon, Varys takes over at the microphone. “Welcome, little birds,” he titters, even though nobody greets him in return. He’s used to it, and everyone knows he’s just biding his time until he can get a cushier job as escort for a better, wealthier region like the Crownlands or the Westerlands, one more likely than the North to net him an actual victor. He has the unfortunate task of introducing the lone, surviving victor of the North, Tyrion, who also serves as mentor for the chosen North tributes in the games. As Varys announces his name, Tyrion stumbles out onto stage, nearly bowling Varys over. Valiantly, he manages to remain standing, even as Tyrion clings to his legs through his robes. He’s half Varys’ height and clearly drunk; a disapproving murmur rises through the crowd at his antics. Finally, Varys peels him off, his smile more a grimace, and Tyrion takes a dramatic bow before plopping down in the empty seat beside Mormont, who sneers at him.

Disgusted, Dany shakes her head. With a man like Tyrion as the North’s mentor, it’s not surprising they’ve had no more victors in the years since his own games.

“What a charming little man.” Varys tries to remain unbothered, even as Tyrion lets out a wet belch behind him. On the big screens hanging over the town square, Varys’ eye twitches. Dany notices in lieu of eyebrows, the man has spider web tattoos. “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!” He removes his hands from his robe sleeves and glides toward one of two large bowls, filled to the brim with white slips of paper. “Ladies first, of course!”

Suddenly, the crowd is alert, everyone drawing a collective breath. _Not me, not me, not me,_ Dany pleads silently as she watches Varys fish around in the bowl before pulling out one slip of paper. He returns to the microphone to read the name out loud.

“Rhaenys Targaryen!”

Dany is so stunned, she can’t fully process the name he just called. Her head spins, a faint pulsing in her ears growing louder, louder. She becomes faint. Someone pushes her from behind as she stumbles, nearly losing her balance. An unhappy murmur ripples through the crowd again, and it’s not until Dany spots her niece's two braided pigtails moving toward the stage that it finally hits her.

 _No_! How could this happen? Dany did everything she could to keep her safe, even refusing to let her take out any rations for herself. Her name was just one slip, one slip among thousands!

Suddenly, she’s moving, pushing through the crowd. “Rhaenys!” she gasps, her voice thready and weak. As if understanding, her classmates part for her, and she darts into the open walkway between the pens, running for the stage. Just as Rhaenys reaches the stairs, Dany sweeps her aside. “I volunteer!” Her voice rings louder, stronger now. She yells it again, “I volunteer as tribute!”

The shock is palpable among the crowd. Not even Varys knows what to do as he looks around for help. “Oh! How valiant of you, but well...I’m not sure—”

“Oh, let her do it,” Mormont says gruffly, his face set in grim acceptance as he looks at her. “Let her come forward. If she wishes to die, then let her.”

Dany feels a tug on her dress. “Dany! No!” Rhaenys screams, and Dany can feel her resolve slipping. She pushes Rhaenys’ hands away.

“Let go,” she says tremulously, trying not to look back, or she knows she’ll be lost.

“Dany, you can’t go! Please!” Rhaenys is weeping now, and the discomfort grows among the crowd. Mercifully, Daario comes forward, lifting Rhaenys into his arms. Dany looks at him gratefully, her eyes stinging, and he gives her a curt nod.

“Up you go,” he tells her, but she can tell it pains him. Rhaenys is still crying as he whisks her away, trying to find her grandmother in the crowd. Weakly, Dany climbs the steps to the stage, her knees shaking. Mormont eyes her keenly. Tyrion jumps down from his chair, wobbles violently on one foot, then approaches. He sizes her up, though his eyes can’t quite look in the same direction at once. Up close, she can smell the alcohol wafting from him, and it makes her stomach turn dangerously.

“Hm. So. You’ve got spirit, huh?” he muses. She doesn’t know what to say to that, but it doesn’t matter, because he spins away from her, finding a camera to yell into. “Yeah, she’s got guts. More than the whole lot of you!” Then he loses his balance and pitches over the side of the stage.

More gasps ring out, and guards hurry to help him up. Dany is grateful for the distraction, taking the moment to gather herself, inhaling deeply and swiping at her wet eyes. She can’t cry, not here, not with everyone watching across the country and back in King’s Landing. She can’t let them think her weak. Not if she has any hope of surviving the games.

The guards finally wrangle Tyrion and lead him away, hopefully somewhere he can sober up. Varys looks relieved to return to the task at hand. He simpers at Dany; up close, she realizes how old he looks underneath all the caked-on makeup.

“And what’s your name?” he asks. Dany’s mouth is dry, and it takes a couple attempts to push any sound out.

“Daenerys. Daenerys Targaryen.”

He gasps in delight. “Oh! And was that your sister?”

Her voice is barely a whisper. “She’s my niece.” Varys murmurs sympathetically.

“Oh, isn’t that wonderful. And I bet you didn’t want her to steal all the glory, hm? You want to make your family proud, don’t you?” Stunned, Dany doesn’t answer, and Varys steamrolls right past the silence. “Let’s hear it for our newest tribute, Daenerys Targaryen!”

To their credit, nobody applauds. They stand in stony-faced silence, refusing to humor him or play the Crown’s games, and Dany feels a rush of gratitude for her people.

Then, something unusual happens. First one, then another, until everyone in the crowd presses their three middle fingers to their lips before lifting them in the air in silent salute. It’s a gesture she recognizes, usually reserved for funerals, as a sign of respect. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means goodbye to someone you love.

She had no idea she meant so much to the people of Winterfell. Maybe they recognize her from her trades around town, the quiet girl who brought them fresh game. Or maybe they recognize her as Rhaegar’s little sister; before his tragic death, he was well-liked, even among the merchant class.

A lump forms in her throat, and she knows she’s in danger of crying again. Somewhere in the crowd she can hear Rhaenys’ sobs. She bites down hard on her lip and lifts her chin high, blinking the tears away. Bemused, Varys attempts to move the proceedings along.

“What a moving display,” he remarks. “This has been very exciting, and I know there’s more excitement to come. Now it’s time to choose our male tribute.”

He moves quickly, perhaps eager to end the ceremony before any more disruptions can upstage him. He pulls out a slip from the bowl of boys’ names, and Dany doesn’t even have time to send up a prayer for Daario’s safety before Varys is reading the name into the microphone.

“Jon Snow!”

Her heart drops into her stomach. _Oh, no,_ she thinks in horror. _Not him._

She watches the boy in question make his way to the stage. Medium height, sinewy build, pale skin, and shaggy black hair that hangs down over his forehead. The shock is evident on his face, and his feet seem to be moving of their own accord. As he mounts the stairs, Dany can see in his gray eyes the same alarm she’s seen so often in prey. He takes his place beside her, and she averts her eyes quickly, unable to look him in the eye.

Varys welcomes Jon then asks for any volunteers. Dany knows Jon doesn’t have any siblings, but he has many cousins, including three boys; only one is old enough to be reaped. He doesn’t come forward now, and Varys is greeted by silence. He tuts in disappointment. “That is most unfortunate,” he says sadly, though his displeasure is more for his own sake than Jon’s. Clearly, after Dany’s display, he’d been expecting more excitement and bloodthirst.

Dany doesn’t know why; before now, no one in the North has ever been brave—or stupid—enough to volunteer. Volunteering means certain death.

No, what Dany has done is the radical thing.

Varys talks some more, but Dany is no longer listening. All she can think about is the boy at her side and despair at her misfortune. Because she knows him, even if they’ve never exchanged a single word before.

She’s suddenly transported back in time, to a cold rainy day in April more than four years ago. It was only three months after Rhaegar’s death in the mines, but already her family was slowly starving to death. The stipend given to them as mere pittance for his death while in service to the Crown hadn’t even lasted a month, and without Rhaegar’s monthly pay from working in the mines or his regular hunting excursions, they had no food to eat. Rhaella was drowning in grief over her only son’s death; she had suffered too much loss already, first with her husband, then with her son, but no matter how much Dany had begged and pleaded with her mother, Rhaella couldn’t seem to drag herself out of bed long enough to care for the daughter and granddaughter who now depended on her. Dany did what she could, trading what little goods they had around the house, but it wasn’t enough to feed them forever. She hoped to make it to May, when she would finally turn 12 and could request extra rations of food from the Crown in exchange for submitting her name into the Reaping additional times. Each extra ration of food equaled an additional entry in the Reaping, and she was allowed to draw a ration of food for each member in her family.

She knew they wouldn’t make it to May, however. She could count all of Rhaenys’ ribs, her cheeks all but hollowed out. That rainy day in April, Dany had gone into Winterfell to the town square to try to sell some of Rhaenys’ old baby clothes, but no one wanted their tattered rags. All the merchants turned her away, spitting at her feet like she was no better than a sewer rat crawling on their doorsteps. Drenched and shaking from the cold, Dany went to the bakery last, drawn by the smell of baking bread; she rummaged through the trash bins out back, hoping to find something edible, but the baker’s wolfdogs had started barking at her, and the baker’s wife had come out to run her off, screaming all kinds of awful things at her. Behind her, in the kitchen, Dany caught a glimpse of gray eyes before she took off. She didn’t make it far, collapsing under a nearby heart tree, her body too weak to carry her any farther. She thought she might die then and there—would even welcome it—when she heard Mrs. Stark screaming once more. The back door flew open. Afraid she’d come to harass her again, Dany tried to stand, her pants soaked with mud and practically falling off her bony hips.

It wasn’t Mrs. Stark, but one of the older boys scurrying down the steps, out into the rain. Behind him, Mrs. Stark yelled, “You useless bastard! Go feed them to the dogs! No one decent will pay for burnt bread, anyway!”

Dany watched as the boy trudged to the dog pens behind the bakery, three loaves of bread in his arms. She recognized him from her grade, Jon. He was quiet, unlike his cousin, Robb. The story went that Ned Stark’s little sister had gotten pregnant young and couldn’t care for the boy on her own, so he had taken him in until she could get back on her feet. Sadly, she died before she could. Dany didn’t know how she died, but some of the more salacious rumors were that she’d gotten so desperate for money that she turned to selling her body to the guards around Winterfell who had the coin and a penchant for young women. One day her body was found at the slag heap; the official cause of death on the death certificate was listed as starvation, as it was for many people in Winterfell, but it was speculated that one of the guards had simply gotten too rough with her. The identity of Jon’s father wasn’t known, but many people suspected he was one of the guards’ bastards; maybe she tried to shake down the father, threatened to turn him into the Crown, and that’s how she ended up at the slag heap.

Despite the tragic circumstances, Mrs. Stark still wasn’t keen on having another mouth to feed indefinitely. Over the years, she grew to resent the boy’s presence in her house.

Her resentment was on full display now as she berated him from the back door before slamming it shut. Jon hunched down against the rain, ripping up a loaf and tossing it to the dogs. Overcome with exhaustion, Dany sank down to the ground again, resting her head against the heart tree. Out of nowhere, a loaf of bread splashed in front of her, landing in a puddle. Stupidly, she stared at it, then lifted her head to see Jon running back inside the bakery.

It took her a moment to understand: He’d thrown the bread to her. Perhaps he’d even burnt it on purpose. Afraid that the baker’s wife might realize what he’d done, Dany snatched up the loaf and shoved it under her shirt. Suddenly revitalized, she staggered to her feet and ran all the way back to Wintertown with her treasure. At home, she’d dried off the loaves as best she could and cut away the burnt bits. Inside, the loaves were still good and hearty, full of raisins and nuts. Rhaenys had actually burst into tears at the sight of food, and for the first time in days, Dany had managed to rouse Rhaella out of her bed. That night, they ate dinner together, thick, warm slices of bread, finishing off half the loaf. Rhaenys wanted more, but Dany knew they needed to ration out the rest of it.

The next day at school, Dany looked for Jon, to thank him. She saw him outside after class, talking to his cousins, but she was taken aback by the fresh welt on his cheek. It hadn’t been there the day before. Had he been struck? Because of what he’d done for her? He glanced her way once, then looked back to his cousins, as if he hadn’t seen her at all. Embarrassed, she turned away. That’s when she saw it: the blue blooms of a winter rose bush.

Suddenly, she knew what she had to do. The hours spent with Rhaegar in the woods, everything he’d taught her—she knew how they would survive.

When she was home, she grabbed Rhaenys’ hand and a bucket then headed to a field near the wolfswood. There she found the winter rose bushes that lined the fence, the only flowers that bloomed in the coldest months of second winter, just before spring. They plucked the blue roses and filled the bucket until it could hold no more. That night, they gorged themselves on rose petals and the last of the bakery bread Jon had thrown her.

She remembered other things Rhaegar had taught her, other plants and herbs they could harvest from the wolfswood to eat: wildmint, bellflower roots, sedge grass, leeks. Rhaella had a book of healing plants she kept, but Rhaegar had added pages of edible ones, too. She and Rhaenys spent hours poring over it, memorizing the pictures and descriptions to harvest what they could. Eventually, Dany worked up the nerve to venture into the wolfswood again; it was the first time she had returned since Rhaegar’s death, the first time she had hunted alone. After a few hours of hiding in a tree close to the fence, she made her first kill, a rabbit, and she did it without anyone else’s help.

It would take her a while to build up the confidence to travel farther into the woods, to acquire enough game to make trades at the Holdfast, but the plants and the occasional rabbit or squirrel were enough to get them through the month. On the day of her twelfth birthday, she went to the Justice Building, signed up for her extra rations, and returned home with her first batch of oil and grain.

Since that day, Dany has never forgotten Jon, and what he did for her, what he risked. He saved not only her, but her family, too. He probably doesn’t remember, but she can’t shake the connection between Jon Snow and the bread that gave her hope, or the blue rose that reminded her that she wasn’t doomed.

And now she’s being thrown into an arena with him, forced to fight to the death. No, the odds have truly not been in her favor today.

Varys finishes his speech and directs the tributes to shake hands. Numbly, Dany turns to Jon and reaches for his hand. He takes it; the warmth and steadiness of his grip surprises her. This time, when she looks up, he meets her gaze head on, then he squeezes her hand once, before releasing it.

She doesn’t have time to think about what that gesture means because the guards immediately rush them off the stage and into the Justice Building. They’re immediately separated and taken to their own rooms. Dany is ushered inside, alone, the door shutting behind her. She doesn’t have to check to know it’s locked, as are the windows. They wouldn’t risk a runaway. No doubt tributes have tried before. Trembling, she sits down on a velvet green couch to wait. The fabric is soft, but faded by the years. She runs her hand across it to comfort her. It’s much nicer than the scratchy, torn upholstery of her family’s couch. The thought hits her with a sharp pang of longing: She might never get to sit on that couch again.

Her mother and Rhaenys visit her first, and the guard stationed outside warns that they have only five minutes. Five minutes to say goodbye, probably for good. Before the door even shuts, Dany rushes into their arms, getting her arms around them both, and for the first time that day she lets herself cry.

Through her tears, she tries to tell them what they’ll need to do now with her gone, how to feed themselves. She assures them Daario won’t let them starve; he’ll bring them game when he can. Rhaenys can sell her goat milk and cheese, while Rhaella can make some money through her small apothecary business in Wintertown.

“You’ll be OK,” Dany tells them with as much conviction as she can. Rhaella grips her hand, her eyes red and watery.

“We will. You don’t have to worry about us, sweetling.”

Dany looks at her, her gaze imploring. “You can’t do what you did before. Like with Rhaegar. Rhaenys needs you now, more than ever,” she tells her urgently, squeezing her hand. “You have to be there for her.”

Rhaella’s face reddens. “I know that. I know how to be a grandmother.”

“Then start acting like one,” Dany snaps at her, her patience frayed. Rhaella looks ashamed, and immediately Dany feels contrite for letting her temper get the best of her. She knows she’s not being fair. She hugs her mother again, hoping the gesture will convey the words she can’t say, all the regrets, but more importantly, all her love.

“She’s right, you don’t worry about us, Dany,” Rhaenys says tearfully. “We’ll be fine. You just worry about yourself. Do what you have to do to win the games. Please. You’re brave. You know how to hunt. Maybe you can win.”

“Maybe,” she says doubtfully, and Rhaenys grabs her other hand.

“Promise you’ll try,” she begs. “Promise you’ll try to win.”

Dany swallows, her throat convulsing with emotion. “I promise.” And she knows she will, knows she’ll do whatever she can to try to get back to her.

They hug again, but then the guard is back, telling them their time is up. He forces Rhaella and Rhaenys up from the couch, his gun in his hand.

“I love you!” Dany calls over their cries of protest, but the door slams shut, silencing their last words. She sinks back to the couch and puts her face in her hands to compose herself. She doesn’t have much time to think about how it will probably be the last time she sees her family before the door opens again to usher in her next visitor. Daario.

She jumps to her feet, and in an instant she’s in his arms, finding it hard to breathe because he’s squeezing her so tightly. Maybe there’s never been anything romantic between them, but she finds immediate comfort in his embrace. Everything about him is familiar, his smell, his touch, even the rhythm of his heartbeat. She takes a deep breath to savor it.

“I’ll look after them,” he promises against the top of her head, and she nods, knowing he means it. “You won’t have to worry about them.”

“I know.”

Daario releases her, pushing her back to look her in the eye. “Listen. You’re good with a knife. You should be able to get one in the arena pretty easily. But you have to get your hands on a bow. That’s your best chance of winning.”

She chews on her lip. “What if they don’t have one?” It’s hard to predict the weapons year to year. She thinks of one particularly gruesome year when the tributes only had spiked maces to bludgeon each other with. It wasn’t particularly exciting to the King’s Landing audience, however; ever since, they’ve made sure to include a variety of weapons for the tributes to use.

“Then make one,” he tells her. “There’s always wood for fire, at the very least.” Distracted, she nods, her mind racing with all the frightening possibilities looming ahead of her. Daario squeezes her shoulders to get her attention. There’s a steely resolve in his bright blue eyes. “Dany, it’s just hunting. You’re the best hunter I know.”

“But it’s different,” she argues, distraught. “This time I’ll be hunting people.”

Grimly, he shakes his head. “It’s no different, really.”

The thing is, she knows he’s right. If she can just forget they’re people, it will be no different at all.

The thought makes her sick and brings a fresh wave of tears to her eyes. Daario’s face falls, and he releases her to fist his hair. “Dammit. I should have volunteered,” he mutters. “I could help keep you safe in there. We’d have each other’s back.”

She’s already shaking her head. “No! Don’t be absurd. Then we both would be dead. I don’t need you to play the hero, Daario.”

“But it’s OK for you to be the hero?” he asks angrily.

“She’s my family! She’s only a child! I couldn’t just do nothing. I couldn’t just sit back and watch her die.” Her voice breaks, and Daario wilts immediately.

“I know. I know, Dany. I understand why you did it. I’d do the same if it was my brothers. I just—I don’t want to lose you.” His expression changes, something indecipherable flickering across his face. “Dany. I have to tell you—”

But his time is up. The guard barges in, interrupting him as he grabs his arm to drag him away. Panicking, Dany yells after him, “Don’t let them starve, please, Daario!”

“I won’t, you know I won’t! Dany—”

The door slams shut behind him, and now she will never know what it is he wanted to tell her.

She’s not prepared for her next visitor: Mr. Stark, the baker, is led inside. His eyes are red from crying. From saying goodbye to Jon, no doubt. Dumbfounded, she sits down on the sofa again, and he perches on an armchair. What could he want to say to her? They have no relationship outside that of merchant and buyer, and for all intents and purposes, she and his nephew are enemies now.

The silence stretches, neither speaking, until, finally he says, “I’m sorry. It’s not fair.”

Dany only nods, unsure what to say. He continues, “I’ll keep an eye on the girl for you. Your niece. Make sure she’s getting enough food.”

His unsolicited offer touches her, though she doesn’t understand why he should care. She swallows against the lump rising in her throat. “Thank you,” she croaks out.

He lapses into silence again before he begins, hesitantly, “I knew your brother. Rhaegar.” Her eyes snap to his. He clears his throat. “I was a couple years older than him, but I knew him in school. He was...he was a good man.”

She bites down on her lip. “He was,” she whispers.

Mr. Stark smiles wanly. “A good singer, too.”

She smiles finally, her chest feeling tight at the memory. Rhaegar loved to sing; he sang all the time, especially in the woods. The birds liked to sing back.

“My sister…” Mr. Stark trails off, and she realizes with a start he’s referring to Jon’s mother. He rubs his hand back and forth over his knee. “She and your brother...they were sweet on each other. Back in school. She was head over heels in love with him, actually. She wanted to marry him, but our parents...didn’t approve. She was from the merchant class, and...well, he wasn’t.” He looks uncomfortable. ”That kind of thing just isn’t done around here, you understand?”

Dany stares at him, wide-eyed. “I...I had no idea.”

He nods, lost in thought. “I think your brother loved her too much to let her give up her life for him. She would have lost everything, including her family. He tried to do the honorable thing by her, but...she was never the same after that. My parents were worried about losing her, and...we lost her, anyway.”

Dany doesn’t know what to say, and they fall quiet once again. After a moment, he sighs, looking at her. He reaches into his pocket. “I should have returned this years ago. When he died. I just didn’t know what to say.” He opens his hand, showing her a pin. “He gave it to her when they were dating. She treasured it greatly. I thought...maybe you might like it back. It should be yours.”

She blinks, taking it from his hand. It’s a circular gold pin; in the middle is a dragon with three heads. An old family crest, she recalls vaguely.

“Maybe you can wear it in the arena. Something to remind you of home,” he suggests, and she nods, still gazing down at the pin.

“Daenerys.” She looks up at the full use of her name. There’s an urgency in his tone that gives her pause. Mr. Stark licks his lips nervously. “You should know. Jon…” He hesitates, seeming to struggle with what he wants to say. Then he shakes his head and gives her a painful smile. “Well. He’s a good boy, that’s all. I love him like my own.”

With that, he stands, then he’s gone, leaving her staring into the emptiness of the room.

* * *

Once their allotted visitations are over, the tributes are taken from the Justice Building to the train station. When Dany sees Jon again, she's shocked to see a fresh weal on his left cheek, like he's been struck. By whom? Surely not his family. A guard, then? Why? She thinks back to that day at the bakery again—and a similar bruise—and just like then, he won't meet her gaze now, oblivious to the question in her face, his own black and stormy.

On the platform, a flock of cameras swarms them, and the guards usher them onto the train where Varys waits to make the journey to King's Landing with them. When he gets a look at Jon's face, he tuts in disapproval but says nothing.

Dany has never been on a train before, especially not one of the high-speed passenger trains. Initially, the speed takes her breath away, making her stomach lurch until she eventually acclimates. Varys shows her to her cabin that has all the luxuries she could ever want or need. The drawers are full of the finest clothing, made of luxurious materials like silk and cashmere. Awed, she rubs the cloth to her cheek, reveling in the sumptuous feeling, but she doesn’t put any of it on. She wants to stay in her mother’s dress, to keep her tethered to her home and her family, as long as possible.

After a while, Varys comes to retrieve her for dinner. She follows him through the train to the dining car where a table is set and overflowing with a smorgasbord of unimaginable delicacies. Jon is already seated. As she sits down across from him, she can't avoid looking at him. His bruise is darker, eye pinched at the corner as his cheek has begun to swell slightly. He no longer radiates resentment as he did at the train station, however. His eyes flicker over her, resting briefly on the pin on her breast before eventually settling elsewhere. Before leaving the Justice Building, she fastened the pin on her dress. She wonders if he recognizes it, if he knows his uncle came to visit her, but if he does, his expression reveals nothing.

“Where’s Tyrion?” Varys asks, taking his seat.

“Sleeping off his concussion, one would hope,” Jon says dryly.

Dany frowns. “If he has a concussion, he probably shouldn’t be sleeping. He might not wake up.”

He keeps his gaze trained on his plate. “That's the hope,” he mutters so only she can hear, surprising her. An inappropriate bubble of laughter passes her lips, but she quickly smothers it, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth. Jon looks at her again and, shyly, she looks away, turning her attention to all the food. Immediately, her stomach twists with hunger, despite the decent lunch she’d eaten only hours ago. She’s never seen so much food in her life, dishes she can’t even begin to identify. It all smells so good.

Perplexed, Varys looks between Jon and Dany, whose plates are still empty. “Dig in,” he encourages. Dany doesn’t know where to start. Jon hesitates, too. Even living at the bakery, she imagines he’s never been confronted with so much food before. The better-off merchants of Winterfell still have to ration out and scrimp for food, especially in the winter. Which is most of the year.

Finally, Dany reaches for a dinner roll, something that at least looks familiar to her. Jon does the same. The first bite awakens something inside her, something primal and greedy, and suddenly she’s filling her plate with everything she can reach, shoveling large helpings of bread and meat and vegetables into her mouth. She knows she should go slower, but she can’t help herself. It all tastes so good, she could cry.

Plus, she needs to pack on as much weight as she can before the games. She certainly won’t be eating like this in the arena.

Varys watches in muted horror as Dany and Jon stuff their faces, so desperate to fill their bellies they forego utensils when they can. “Absolute savages,” he mutters before very delicately cutting into a pork cutlet on his plate.

Dany ignores him, but as soon as she’s finished eating, she regrets her overindulgence. Her stomach isn’t used to such rich food, or so much of it, and now she’s struggling to keep it down. Jon doesn’t fare much better than her; he burps behind his hand, looking ill.

After dinner, they go to another car to watch a recap of the Reapings from across the country. Dany tries to pay close attention to the tributes, especially those from the wealthier regions. She knows those will be her main competition; a tribute from those regions usually wins every year, as they’re practically trained from birth for just this moment. Winning the games is an honor for them, volunteering practically its own bloodsport. This year, a few tributes stand out: a tall, blond-haired boy with a cruel sneer from the Crownlands whose partner looks just as lethal, with her wild red hair and pug nose. Then there’s a fox-faced girl with burnished hair and a sly smile from the Riverlands. And, perhaps most unsettling of all, a 12-year-old girl from the Reach. She has dark skin and eyes, but otherwise she’s so similar to Rhaenys in size and demeanor, Dany feels her heart sink into her stomach. Was there no one to volunteer for her, to keep her safe?

When they show the North’s Reaping, Dany can barely watch herself, her eyes cast down as she hears herself scream for Rhaenys; she looks hysterical and terrified and small on that stage. Nothing like the tributes from the Crownlands, with all their arrogance and brutality and eagerness to volunteer.

After the recap is over, Varys clucks in admonishment. “Every year, your mentor is determined to embarrass me.” He sighs. “I wish he’d refrain from hitting the bottle at least until after the televised portion of the Reaping.”

Dany looks at Varys incredulously, but Jon is the one to speak. He lets out an unexpected laugh. “He’s a drunk. He’s never _not_ drunk.”

Varys wrinkles his nose. “I’m glad you find this funny. You know your mentor is your one lifeline in these games. He’s the one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and controls any gifts you receive. When you’re in the arena, Tyrion might just be the difference between your life and your death.”

Just then, the door to the train car slides open, and Tyrion staggers into the compartment. “Did I miss dinner?” he slurs. He then proceeds to retch onto the pink carpet at his feet and slips in his own vomit, sprawling on his hands and knees.

Varys stands from the sofa where they sit. “So, laugh it up while you still can, I suppose,” he tells them haughtily before stepping over Tyrion and sweeping out of the car in a flamboyant flourish of robes.

Jon and Dany stare at their mentor, unsure what to do, until he groans. He tries to stand but slips again. Finally, Jon sighs and moves to help him. Dany joins him. They each take an arm and help Tyrion to his feet. The stench of vomit makes Dany’s stomach turn, her own dinner threatening to make a reappearance.

“Uh oh,” Tyrion singsongs, looking down at the vomit covering his pants. “Looks like somebody threw up.”

Jon grimaces. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Together, he and Dany half-walk, half-carry Tyrion back to his own compartment. Jon seems to know where it is, so Dany lets him lead the way. In his room, they take him into the bathroom and sit him down in the shower. Jon turns it on, dousing the man in the spray. Tyrion just tips his head back and opens his mouth to drink it, heedless of his clothes getting soaked.

Dany hesitates, which Jon seems to pick up on. “I can take it from here,” he tells her. She wavers.

“Are you sure?” she asks him, mildly embarrassed. Secretly, she’s relieved; she’s not comfortable stripping a grown man naked. And she doesn’t want to admit how sick the whole thing is making her feel; she’s never had her mother’s affinity for taking care of others. Jon just nods, kneeling down outside of the shower to deal with their mentor, who spits the water into the air like a fountain.

Dany lingers a moment longer, staring at the back of Jon's head, too many questions on the tip of her tongue. But then she turns and leaves them to head back to her cabin. There, she takes a shower herself, feeling dirty even though she made sure not to touch Tyrion’s vomit. She’s never showered before, as they only have a tub in their small house back home. It takes her a few tries to get the temperature somewhere between ice cold and scalding hot, but then she stands for a while under the massaging spray, marveling at the way the water sleuths down her body, rinsing soap and suds down the drain. The water never grows cold or tepid. She pushes a few more buttons, discovering oils and extracts she doesn’t understand the purpose of, but they smell nice and they make her skin feel soft and silky-smooth.

Once she’s done, she dries off by placing her hand on a panel that sends a very mild electric current through her body. It’s a strange sensation; her hair floats out in a cloud of static before falling down her back like a curtain, silky and dry. She doesn’t bother dressing in any of the nightgowns in her drawers; instead she slides into her bed naked, shivering as the cool, soft sheets envelop her bare body. Only when she puts her head down on her pillow and closes her eyes does she think about her fellow tribute again. She wonders if he’s finished cleaning Tyrion off yet. Did he tuck him into bed as well? She thinks about the unexplained bruise on his face, and a worm of regret wriggles into her thoughts. She should have stayed to help him, at least. It would have been the kind thing to do. Smart, too.

That brings her up short, and her eyes snap open in the dark. It dawns on her much too slowly. Of course, Jon isn’t just helping their mentor out of the kindness of his heart. He wants to make a good impression on the man, win his favor for the games. Tyrion might be obligated to help both of his tributes, but only one can win, and if he manages to secure sponsors to help them in the arena, already a long shot for the North, he will have to choose who to prioritize first.

Jon is already playing the game, and she just let him do it without any forethought for herself or a strategy for the arena. What a fool she is!

With her anger comes a new realization, a new fear: Jon, the kind baker’s nephew, the boy with the bread, is already trying to win, to beat her. Which means he’s already fighting hard to kill her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan to publish the next chapter on Monday! Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jon arrive in King's Landing, where they meet their eccentric stylists and will spend the remaining week preparing for the games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to aliciutza for beta'ing and making the amazing moodboard! Isn't it gorgeous? I was so excited when she showed it to me <3
> 
> Also, thanks to the commenter who gently pointed out my terrible grasp of the Targaryen family tree. Let's just pretend that fuck up never happened yeah?

* * *

Dany barely sleeps that first night, her thoughts consumed with fear about what’s to come even as her heart aches for home. It hurts her to think about her mother and Rhaenys back in Wintertown, having to get on without her now. All but two families will be celebrating, gathering around their dinner tables to give thanks, just grateful it isn’t their children on their way to King’s Landing. Any other night, Dany would be curled up with Rhaenys, telling her about her day in the wolfswood at Rhaenys’ request until they both fall asleep; tonight, she imagines her niece will instead find solace in her grandmother’s bed again, both crying themselves to sleep. Dany has to bite down hard on her cheek to stop her own tears from falling; she doesn’t want to greet the others in the morning with swollen eyes and blotchy cheeks.

When she’s finally roused by a train attendant, she dresses in a simple shirt and a pair of slacks, exactly as she would dress if she were still at home. It’s a small comfort. After braiding her hair, she leaves her cabin to venture to the dining car. She’s surprised to find Varys, Tyrion and Jon already seated at the table and eating breakfast. Tyrion, more than anyone, really.

He notices her first. “Come on, sit down,” he tells her, waving her to the table.

She eyes him suspiciously, her eyes darting between him and Jon. Their mentor is awfully bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning despite the previous night’s debacle. She can’t help but wonder what they must have talked about in her absence this morning. Does he know it was Jon who took care of him? Have they already struck some kind of deal for the games?

When she meets Jon’s eyes, he lifts his mug toward her in a friendly gesture. “You should try the hot chocolate. It’s incredible.” His cheek has darkened into the motley purple of a day’s old bruise.

Tyrion chuckles. “Even better the way I make it,” he says, pouring some clear liquid from a flask into his own mug. Varys shakes his head in disapproval. Suddenly, Dany understands what accounts for their mentor’s good mood this morning.

“Should you be drinking that?” she asks, a little too sharply. He raises his eyebrows at her and smiles.

“Never heard of the hair of the dog?” She stares at him blankly, and he shrugs, sipping from his mug. “Ah, well. Maybe one day you’ll understand.”

Scowling to herself, she sits in an empty chair and fills up her plate, though she tries to moderate herself this time, not wanting to repeat her mistake from last night. She pours a cup of this acclaimed hot chocolate and sips it; immediately, she scalds her tongue, but, grudgingly, she concedes Jon’s point. It _is_ incredible—rich and sweet; she’s never had anything like it back home. She can’t stop herself from finishing it all before she starts on the food.

As she eats, Tyrion and Varys make idle chat. Varys complains about one of the attendants who mistakenly poured him decaf coffee, and Tyrion rolls his eyes, telling him vodka will wake him up faster than coffee, anyway. Jon is quiet, tearing off pieces of a bread roll to dip in the hot chocolate before eating them. Dany grows restless with the trivial chatter.

“So, are you going to give us any advice?” she asks Tyrion, interrupting his insipid joke about a donkey and a honeycomb. “About the games? What should we expect when we get to King’s Landing?”

Tyrion snorts into his drink. “You want my advice? Stay alive.” He chortles to himself, amused by his cleverness. Dany’s face goes hot, and she looks at Jon. His face has hardened, and the shift in his mood surprises her.

“That’s really funny,” he says coolly. Then he lashes out, slapping the cup out of Tyrion’s hand. The ceramic mug shatters against the wall, splattering hot chocolate across the carpet. Varys sucks in a breath, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. “Except not to us.”

For a moment, Tyrion considers the broken cup and spilled drink. He tsks. “That wasn’t very considerate. Now the poor attendants are going to have to clean that up after they finish chasing down Varys’ coffee.” He reaches across the table for his flask. Angered by his indifference, Dany snatches up a knife and slashes it down between his hand and the bottle, driving it into the table. She just misses his fingers, intentionally so, but he doesn’t even flinch.

Blinking, he sits back in his chair and looks between Jon and Dany as if seeing them for the first time. “Well, then. Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?” He eyes Dany. “How good are you with a knife?”

She yanks it out of the table and flips it in her hand to grip the blade, a trick she and Daario used to spend hours perfecting in the woods. Then she hurls it at the wall. It sticks. The sausage slides off Varys’ fork and plops down on his plate.

Tyrion hums thoughtfully. “Not bad. But can you hit a target? Say, another human being running right at you with a weapon of their own?”

She bristles. “I can handle a knife. I’m better with a bow.”

“Is that so?” He says it doubtfully then gestures to the wall. “Both of you. Stand up.” They obey and stand beside each other against the wall. Tyrion hops down from his chair and circles them, observing them like they’re cattle. “Who hit you?” he asks.

Dany looks at Jon. He flexes his jaw, eyes hooded. “One of the guards at the Justice Building,” he mutters, embarrassed. Her mouth parts in surprise, and Tyrion snorts.

“Considering what you did to my mug, I don’t think I need to ask what you did to deserve the slap. But you’re lucky they didn’t do worse.” He finishes sizing them up. “You both seem decently fit. A bit on the small size, unfortunately, but, then again, size isn’t everything, is it?” He flashes a droll smile.

Dany and Jon share a look, and Tyrion continues, “Once the stylists get their hands on you, you might not be entirely hopeless. While size might not matter, unfortunately, looks do.” He’s right; the prettier tributes always get more sponsors, and the good-looking victors go on to become fan favorites of King’s Landing. Tyrion taps his chin in thought. “I’ll make a deal with you. Don’t interfere with my drinking, and I’ll stay sober long enough to help you.”

Jon and Dany share another look before agreeing. “Deal,” Jon says.

Dany immediately bombards him with questions. “What’s the best strategy once we’re in the arena? Should we attack first or go on the defensive?”

He holds up a hand to silence her. “One thing at a time. We’ll be arriving in the capital today. You’ve got to get through the opening ceremony and training first. And before that, you’ve got to meet your stylists. You won’t like what they do, but it’s important you do everything they ask of you. No matter what it is. Got it?”

“But—” Dany begins, and he shakes his head.

“No buts. Stylists first. Then we’ll talk.” With that, he grabs his flask and waddles out of the dining car, swigging from it as he goes.

* * *

Once they arrive in King’s Landing, there is no time to marvel at the extreme opulence of the capital city (so full of color and wealth, and so very alien to two poor kids from the North). Dany and Jon are immediately swept from the train to the Remake Center, where they will meet their stylists and be made over in preparation for the opening ceremonies. There, they are separated once again and handed over to their own prep teams. Dany is stripped naked and spends the next few hours getting plucked, waxed, and scrubbed clean. From the neck down, there’s not a single hair left on her body, and every miniscule granule of dirt has been scraped away until her skin practically glistens, as pink as a newborn baby.

After her prep team is done, she feels like a bird, ready to be spitted and roasted. They leave her standing alone and naked in a stark white room. Finally, the door opens. In glides a strange woman robed all in red. Her hair falls around her shoulders in scarlet waves, and even her eyes burn red. She must be wearing contacts. Another peculiarity of this strange city.

“Hello, Dany,” she speaks. Her voice reminds Dany of a babbling brook, calming and melodious. “I am your stylist. Melisandre.” Her words are heavily accented, as if she’s not native to King’s Landing or even Westeros, but Dany can’t place its origins.

“Hello,” Dany greets tentatively as the woman begins a slow circle around her, studying her in thoughtful silence. Dany resists the urge to shield herself with her arms. Back home, she’s rarely had cause to be self-conscious of her body. The people of Winterfell are not vain, and there is little cause to worry about looks when your days are consumed with the crushing weight of poverty and pure survival. Here, she knows all the citizens of King’s Landing will be judging her and finding her wanting. Under her stylist’s calculating perusal, Dany holds her chin up. She won’t be cowed by their judgment before she’s even stepped a foot into the arena.

After Melisandre completes her perusal, she stops in front of Dany. “Your hair. It’s quite beautiful. Unique.” She lifts a lock from Dany’s shoulder and lets it fall through her fingers. “Is your family the same?”

Dany nods. “My mother. My brother and father, too.”

“You don’t see a lot of silver hair in Westeros. Not naturally, anyway.” She smiles slightly. “It’s more common where I come from, actually.”

“Where do you come from?” Dany asks, staring at the large ruby choker on her stylist’s neck. It seems to dance as the woman talks, the light catching on the many facets. It’s oddly hypnotizing.

Melisandre waves a hand dismissively. “Nowhere you would have heard of.”

“I don’t remember seeing you before,” Dany says skeptically. “In previous games.”

“This is my first year.”

“So they stuck you with the North.”

She shakes her head. “I asked for it.” She walks over to a chair and grabs a simple white robe, holding it out to Dany. “Why don’t you get dressed, then we can talk shop?”

They leave the makeover room and venture into a side room, where they take a seat on the floor around a low table, which has already been set with trays of food. Dany eagerly digs into the dish of chicken and oranges cooked in a rich, creamy sauce, but after a few minutes she realizes Melisandre isn’t eating, just sipping tea from a small cup as she quietly observes Dany eat.

“You seem well fed for a girl from the North,” she remarks. “In the past, tributes from your region have been very malnourished and sickly.”

Dany grinds her teeth together. “Because they are. Malnourished. It’s a poor region. We don’t get nearly enough food. I—” She hesitates, reluctant to admit how she actually obtains her food. Technically, hunting in the wolfswood is a crime, as the Crown claims dominion of all of Westerosi land and its resources; in most regions, hunters are treated as poachers and punished as such. The Crown might not be able to do anything to Dany now, but they could still go after her family, for aiding and abetting a criminal.

“My family does better for ourselves than most,” is all she says.

If Melisandre senses the defensiveness in Dany’s words, she ignores it. “Let’s discuss the opening ceremonies tonight. As I’m sure you know, it’s customary for tributes to wear costumes that reflect your region in some way or another. My partner is styling your fellow tribute, and we want to work together on this. We would like to dress you both in complementary costumes. To present you as a team.”

Dany wants to ask why, but she remembers Tyrion’s words. “OK,” she agrees warily.

“What’s the most notable aspect of your district, would you say?”

She doesn’t have to think about it. “The winter. The cold. Snow.” The stylists in the past always made that the focus of their tributes’ costumes. Dressed them in bulky, unflattering furs. Or worse, fashioned skimpy, impractical outfits that were more skin than fur. One year, the stylists got a little too creative; two unfortunate tributes were covered in actual snow, the wet slush somehow plastered to their bodies in imitation of mythical figures from old Northern legends. The commentators of the parade called it “quaint.” Unsurprisingly, the North tributes were some of the first to die in the games that year, no doubt weakened by pneumonia.

Melisandre nods her agreement with Dany’s answer. “We don’t want to do the same thing that’s been done every year, however. This time, we’re not going to focus on the snow or the cold itself, but what you _do_ in the cold. Do you know what that is?”

Frowning, Dany shakes her head, not sure where her stylist is going with this. Melisandre gives her another not-quite-a-smile. “You create heat. And how do you create heat?”

“Light a fire?” she guesses, the skepticism heavy in her voice. This time, Melisandre’s smile widens, and Dany swears the ruby on her neck dances.

“Tell me, Dany—are you afraid of fire?”

* * *

A few hours later Melisandre escorts Dany to the bottom level of the Remake Center where the opening ceremonies will be held to officially introduce all the tributes. They will be paraded on chariots through the streets of King’s Landing, then taken to the Red Keep where they will be presented to the King of Westeros himself, Tywin Lannister. Once they have received his blessing, the procession will return to the Remake Center, which comprises the base of the Tribute Training Center that houses all their apartments. There, the tributes will spend the rest of the week preparing for the games.

Dany clutches anxiously at her black silk robe, which is unfortunately all she’s wearing at the moment—and, soon, not even that. As Melisandre leads her to her and Jon’s chariot, she observes all the other tributes that, until now, she’s only seen on TV. To her growing dismay, their costumes, as garish and over the top as they are, are still noticeably more modest than her own.

The North tributes’ look for the evening is either about to be the talk of the opening ceremonies—or a complete disaster. Dany’s worried their stylists might not be quite right in the head. Then again, they would _have_ to be insane to do this job, to choose to dress children for a slaughter.

When they reach their chariot, Jon already waits with his stylist, Kinvara. He is similarly robed, but his black hair is loose, falling in wild waves across his forehead, while Dany’s own hair is intricately braided. Kohl also darkens his eyes, mostly masking the bruise and making his gray eyes glimmer like minerals, and she can see, like her, a black powder resembling ash and charcoal has been smudged across his bare feet and up his legs.

For some reason, seeing him, the full picture of what their stylists have planned for them only just hits her. Jon must have the same realization, too, because his face goes beet red when he sees her, and he quickly averts his eyes.

“All set?” Melisandre asks.

“Everything is ready,” Kinvara answers, handing her partner a small remote device.

They direct Dany and Jon onto their chariot, which is attached to four black, unreined horses. The horses are so well trained, they won’t need anyone to steer them during the parade. “Stand in the circles,” Melisandre says. Dany looks down and sees what she’s referring to: two circular devices have been placed in the foot of the chariot. Heart racing, she positions her feet inside the ring, and Jon does the same within his own circle.

She dry swallows, glancing sideways at Jon. “What do you think? About their plan?” she asks anxiously. His eyes dart to her, then away, and he gives a curt shake of his head.

“I think they’re fucking crazy,” he says under his breath. Knowing that he’s just as apprehensive makes her feel a little better. At least, until Melisandre speaks again.

“Your robes,” she says, holding her hand out. Neither Jon nor Dany make a move. “Hurry. The ceremonies are about to start.”

Jon unbelts his robe but wavers, hands clutching the sides. With a bracing breath, he rips it open and shrugs out of his robe, revealing first his bare chest, then his stomach, then his—

Blushing, Dany snaps her gaze forward and unties her own robe. _Just do it,_ she tells herself. In less than a week, she will be forced to fight for her life; what’s a little nudity among strangers who want her dead? Clenching her jaw, she hastily slips off her robe and hands it over to Melisandre. She tries to ignore all the stares; the two tributes from the Neck, who are ahead of them in the procession, actually turn around in their chariot to gawk at the naked tributes of the North.

As Dany repositions herself in the circle, she sneaks another furtive glance at Jon, her gaze dropping lower despite her best efforts; she blushes all over again. She’s never seen a naked boy before, let alone _been_ naked with one. And while Melisandre and Kinvara strategically coated them in the soot to mostly obscure their most private parts, it does nothing to distract from the shape and form of—well, _everything_.

She directs her gaze back to his face—and catches him looking at her, too, eyes darting down then up again in a sweeping glance. When he brings his gaze to her face, he realizes he’s been caught. His blush deepens, and he snaps his head forward, hands clapping in front of his groin.

“No hiding yourselves,” Melisandre chides lightly. She gestures for Jon to remove his hands, demonstrating by pushing her shoulders back, her chin lifted. “Head high. Proud. Don’t let them see your fear.”

“That’s not what I’m afraid of them seeing,” Jon mutters, but, reluctantly, he obliges.

Just then, the opening music begins, and two large doors part to reveal the crowds of people lining the streets, cheering as they wait in anticipation of the parade. The first chariot, containing the tributes from the Crownlands, goes first to begin the procession out of the Remake Center. Dany can hear the cheers get louder as the people glimpse the first tributes in their costumes. Dany can’t see what they’re wearing, but judging by the applause, it’s a hit.

One by one the chariots begin to pull out into the streets; there are ten chariots total, and the North is last in the procession. Before long, it’s their turn. As the horses began to pull their chariot forward, Melisandre calls out something to them. Dany and Jon look to her, but the music and the crowd are too loud to hear her. She gestures to them, clasping her hands together and holding them up.

“What is she saying?” Dany asks Jon, who frowns.

“I think she wants us to hold hands.”

He offers his hand, and Dany looks at it, uncertain. After a moment, she places her hand in his. They glance to Melisandre in question, who nods approvingly.

Then their chariot emerges from the Remake Center, onto the streets of King’s Landing. The cheers and applause falter slightly at the unexpected sight before them: two naked teenagers, dirty and covered in soot, holding hands. It’s obvious they don’t know what to make of this, what kind of statement the tributes from the cold, inhospitable North are making with their bold, unadorned nudity. As they puzzle it out, Dany can feel her heart in her throat, her vision blurring as blood rushes to her ears. Jon squeezes her hand tightly, and she looks to him, surprised to find him stone-faced, eyes and mouth hard. Feeling her gaze on him, he returns her look and tightens his grip on her hand.

“Don’t give them anything,” he tells her firmly, quietly.

She manages a nod and faces forward again as their chariot makes the slow crawl through the street. A moment later, she feels a tickling sensation at her feet and glances down. Small, synthetic flames spring up from the rings at her and Jon’s feet. The flames quickly grow bigger until they’re dancing around their legs, licking at their clasped hands. Melisandre must have activated the fire with the remote device. Dany knew to expect it, but she still has to remind herself it’s not real.

At first, the crowds react with shock and alarm. Gasps ring out, then give way to wild applause as they realize what’s happening: The two tributes from the North are on fire. Not just that—they look like they are rising from the flames and the ashes anew. Reborn, like some mythical creatures of fire.

The applause quickly grows deafening. It’s easily the loudest of the night.

Dany’s fear slowly begins to ebb, and in its place she begins to feel something new: excitement. The crowd loves them, their cheers ringing long and loud, the sound almost dizzying. Soon, roses rain down on them as people toss them into the street. Dany can hear their names being called—either the citizens remember them from the televised Reapings or looked them up in the program—and she can’t help but be swept up by their adoration. A smile spreads across her face, and she waves to the crowd, even blowing kisses. She catches a rose that hits her chest and makes a show of smelling it before throwing it back. A young girl catches it and goes wild. “Daenerys! Daenerys!” she screams.

For the first time since the morning of Reaping Day, Dany feels an inkling of hope. Somewhere in that crowd is a sponsor, maybe many, who will be willing to take a chance on the tributes from the North. On _her_.

Maybe, just maybe, she can survive these games yet.

When she looks at Jon, she finds him watching her with a bemused look on his face. “Some of these people could be sponsors,” she says defensively. He says nothing, but when he turns away, he offers a wave to the crowd, a tentative smile on his lips.

The procession eventually makes its way to the Red Keep. The king, a tall, thin man with white-blonde hair and a severe face, stands on the crenellation of the gatehouse overlooking the parade. The entire Red Keep is ringed by curtain walls, and on it hang banners bearing the Crown’s symbol, a lion. One by one the chariots come to a halt before the gatehouse, and once the music ends, King Tywin welcomes the tributes, his voice ringing out through speakers.

“Greetings, tributes,” he says, and at the sound of his quiet, sibilant voice, Dany feels a shiver crawl down her back. He’s always reminded her more of a snake than a lion.

The crowd falls silent as his face fills the large monitors positioned around the gatehouse. He lifts his hands toward the ten chariots that are lined up before him. “We welcome you to our great city of King’s Landing. You have been given the great honor of representing your region in this year’s Hunger Games.”

As he recites his standard speech, his image is replaced with shots of the tributes. Every region is featured, but Dany can’t help but notice the cameras seem to focus on her and Jon far more than the rest. The flames that dance around their naked bodies are dazzling and impossible to look away from.

“Happy Hunger Games. And, as always, may the odds be ever in your favor.” At the conclusion of the king’s speech, The crowd erupts in cheers once again. The music starts again, and the parade resumes with the chariots winding their way back to the Remake Center. Once again Jon and Dany’s chariot is the last through, and the doors shut behind them, drowning out the last of the cheers. As soon as the horses stop, Melisandre and Kinvara approach to spray the rings at their feet in some powdery substance, quickly extinguishing the synthetic fire.

It’s only then that Dany realizes she’s still holding Jon’s hand. She’s been gripping it so tightly, her fingers have gone white. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, trying to untangle her fingers from his. He looks at her and shrugs.

“It’s OK,” he tells her, flexing his stiff fingers once they’re free. “I didn’t mind.”

Kinvara helps them both down from the chariot, and Melisandre drapes their robes over their shoulders. With the thrill of the parade quickly fading, Dany is eager to cover herself again. She quickly slips her arms into the sleeves and pulls the robe around her body.

“How did it go?” Melisandre asks.

“Better than I expected,” Dany admits. “How did it look?”

Melisandre shakes her head, her eyes amused. “Transformative. You two stole the show. They loved you.”

“They loved _her_ ,” Jon says, jerking his chin at Dany. “You should have heard them out there. They were screaming her name.”

Her face goes hot. “Yours, too,” she objects. He shakes his head.

“I don’t think they even noticed me. With you beside me, who could?” She stares at him, not sure what to say. He doesn’t sound angry or bitter; on the contrary, his words sound sincere.

“The fire suits you,” he says, then he smiles slightly at her. “I don’t think they’ll soon forget the girl who was on fire.”

His smile is so unexpected, so genuinely sweet, warmth rushes through her. Impulsively, she goes up on tip toe and kisses him on his cheek. Right on his bruise. He looks at her, surprised and embarrassed, and when he blushes, she finds herself blushing, too. She turns away, remembering their stylists.

Melisandre stares at her, intrigued. “Yes,” she murmurs thoughtfully. Her eyes dance in faraway thought. “Daenerys Targaryen. The girl on fire.”

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, Tyrion is surprisingly sober. He refuses the red alcohol the attendant offers, instead opting for a sip of his water. It’s an encouraging sign; Dany is hopeful he won’t be the bumbling, incoherent drunk for the games that he was at the Reaping.

Melisandre, Kinvara and Varys are also seated at the table; for the next week they will all share the same apartment in the Tribute Training Center as they prepare for the games. Glancing around the table, Dany has an unsettling thought: Her and Jon’s lives are in the hands of these four people. While their debut at the tribute parade was a success, ultimately it matters little in the arena.

“We should discuss strategy,” Tyrion says once everyone has cleared their plates.

Today she and Jon will begin training with the other tributes in preparation for the games. They will have three days working on combat and survival skills; at the end of training, each tribute will have a private session with the Gamemakers, the architects of the games. The Gamemakers will assess each tribute’s skills and potential, then they will assign them a score based on their perceived chances of survival, a fact that will be broadcast to the whole country. It’s often a good indication of who will win; the winner usually has one of the highest scores of that year’s selection of tributes, and it’s a persuading factor in helping sponsors decide which tribute to bankroll.

It also paints a big target on their backs. High or low, those are the tributes the others will want to eliminate first.

“I need to know what you can do,” Tyrion continues, looking between Jon and Dany. Jon exchanges a look with her and shrugs.

“I’m not really good at much. Unless you count baking bread,” he says, fidgeting with his napkin.

“Unfortunately, I don’t imagine they’ll throw you guys into a giant bakery,” Tyrion quips then looks to Dany. “What about you? I know you’re good with a knife. What else?”

“I’m all right with a knife,” she hedges. “I’m better with a bow and arrow.”

“Really?” Tyrion looks impressed. “That’s a huge advantage. Can you hunt?”

“I do all right for myself.”

Jon scoffs. “She’s better than all right. She keeps half of Winterfell fed.”

Surprised, Dany blinks at him. She had no idea he was that aware of her abilities. Then again, he’s probably eaten the game she’s brought to the bakery. It makes sense he would know where it came from.

“It’s not that much,” she objects.

“Don’t undersell yourself,” Jon argues, taking her back with his sudden anger. “He can’t help you if he doesn’t know what you can do.”

“What about you?” she counters, indignant at his admonishment. “You’re underselling yourself, too. I’ve seen you at the bakery. You haul around hundred-pound bags of flour all day.”

He curls his lip in a sneer. “So what? I’m not going to kill someone with a sack of flour.” He shakes his head. “It’s not the same as being able to use a weapon, and you know it.”

Angrily, she turns to Tyrion. “He’s a wrestler. Has he told you that? He wins the wrestling championship at school every year.”

“And what good is that?” Jon snaps. “I can’t wrestle someone to death.”

“Well, not with that attitude,” Varys chortles over his cup of coffee, but they ignore him.

“It helps!” Dany yells at Jon. “At least you stand a chance if you have to fight someone hand-to-hand! Look at me! If I get jumped in the games, I’m dead!”

Jon rolls his eyes. “But you won’t be. You’ll be up in the trees living off squirrels and picking off the others with your arrows. Between the two of us, everyone knows you’ve got the best chance. Hell, even my family knows it. You know what my aunt said at the train station when they were saying goodbye? She said, ‘Maybe we’ll finally have a victor this year. She’s a survivor, that one.’”

Dany sits back in her chair, stunned. “She didn’t say that,” she says doubtfully. Could his aunt be that cruel?

“Believe me, she isn’t rooting for me,” he mutters.

In that moment, she’s back behind the bakery on that cold day in April, the bread he’d given her, and the black eye he’d earned in return, and she knows what he says is true. “If I’m a survivor, it’s because I’ve had help,” she says, quieter.

Jon meets her eyes then. She wonders if he’s thinking about that day, too. “You’ll have people helping you in the games. Once they know what you can do, they’ll be falling all over themselves to sponsor you.”

“No more than you,” she insists, and he finally looks to Tyrion, his mouth a wry slash across his face.

“She has no idea. The effect she has,” he says bitingly. Dany doesn’t understand what he means by that, whether he means to compliment her or insult her. Silence descends around the table.

Finally, Tyrion speaks, looking between them with amusement. “Interesting,” he muses, tapping his finger on the table. Clearing his throat, he says, “Daenerys is right. Don’t underestimate the power of physical strength in the arena. There will be tributes bigger than you, so every little bit helps. You can’t guarantee there will be a bow and arrow in the arena, either. But make sure you show the Gamemakers what you can do in your private session. If they know, they might be more inclined to include one. They want to put on a good show, after all. Until then, don’t let the other tributes know how good you are. During the training, use the time to learn skills you don’t already know. Foraging, hunting, climbing, whatever it is.”

Jon and Dany nod. Tyrion gives them one last knowing look. “One more thing: I want you two to stick by each other’s side the whole time you’re training. No matter what, even if you can’t stand each other. Understood?”

They share a fleeting look before reluctantly agreeing to his stipulation. Tyrion smiles. “Good. Now, go get ready for training.”

* * *

After breakfast, Varys escorts Jon and Dany to a large gymnasium on one of the bottom floors of the Tribute Training Center. A stern, balding man introduces himself as Stannis and informs the gathered tributes that he will be their instructor for the next three days. He begins by explaining the training schedule and encourages them to explore every station to learn different survival skills and fighting techniques. An expert will be at each station to help them.

As he talks, Dany surreptitiously sizes up her competition and is disheartened by what she sees. Most of them are bigger than her, especially the tributes from the wealthier regions like the Crownlands and the Westerlands. She immediately recognizes the tributes who volunteered at their Reaping ceremonies, eager to prove themselves to their people and the country. Back home in Winterfell, they call them Career Tributes. For them, competing in the games is an honor, a birthright. It’s no coincidence that the regions closest to King’s Landing boast the most number of victors; it’s technically against the rules for anyone to train for the games prior to being reaped, but they do it anyway.

Dany doesn’t miss the contemptuous glances many of the tributes throw her and Jon’s way. Not because they’re threatened, she guesses, but because they stole the show at the opening ceremonies. In that moment, she realizes their success at the parade has already made her a target.

The confidence she felt the night before vanishes, and once again she feels as small as she actually is.

Concluding his introduction, Stannis releases the tributes to begin their training. Dany and Jon decide to start at the knot tying station. She knows a few knots, thanks to Daario and his snare techniques. Jon is clueless, but he’s a quick learner, at least. They spend a while at that station, going over basic knots first, then the station expert teaches them how to make simple traps to ensnare a human competitor. Once they’ve mastered that, they move on to the camouflage station, where it becomes apparent Jon knows quite a bit about paints and mixing colors.

Soon, Dany loses interest in her own color palette, enraptured as she watches him work. When he sees he has her attention, he explains, “I frost the cakes back home at the bakery.”

“Really?” She thinks about the beautiful, elaborate display cakes she used to see in the front windows of the bakery. They were always far too expensive for her to afford, but every weekend, Dany would take Rhaenys to the town square just to look at them.

“Good work,” she says with a faint smile. “Who knew frosting would be such an asset in the games?”

“Admittedly, it’s no snare, but we can’t all spend our days in the woods,” he says dryly.

For some reason, his response bothers her. “I don’t spend all day in the woods for fun, you know,” she retorts, but he’s too focused on mixing mud and clay together to reply. Huffing, she looks around longingly at the other stations. Most of the other tributes are taking advantage of the combat stations, learning how to throw spears and knives. Of course, the Career Tributes already know how to do this, but they enjoy showing off, clapping each other on the back when they hit a bullseye.

“Here,” Jon says suddenly, startling her when he takes her hand. She watches, wide-eyed, as he smears a mixture of mud and berry juice on the back of her hand, his hair falling over his forehead as he works. Her face turns inexplicably hot, but she holds still for him, hardly daring to breathe. When he’s done, he holds it up for her, and she admires how the colors blend together to mimic the foliage she’s seen in the woods back home.

“It’s pretty,” she comments, and he shakes his head.

“Not pretty. Practical,” he says, dropping her hand. He sounds annoyed with her, but she can’t figure out why. Instead, he says, “Come on. Let’s try another station.”

They spend the next three days learning useful skills, like how to start fires and make blinds and identify edible plants. Tyrion said it was more important that they focus on life-saving skills like that; most tributes die in the first days of the games because they don’t know how to keep warm or find water or food. They save the weapons stations for the last day, though Dany avoids the archery station altogether. She already knows more than they could teach her in just a couple hours. Just as Tyrion advised, Jon steers clear of the weights station, but he takes to the sword with surprising ease, learning basic fighting techniques like how to parry and strike. Dany observes him with appreciation and, admittedly, simmering jealousy; the sword is too heavy for her to be any good at it.

Each day, she and Jon eat all their meals together in the cafeteria. Most tributes sit by themselves, except for the Careers who sit together in one big group, chatting and laughing boisterously, just like the popular kids at school do. It’s a show, she thinks, to prove that they’re not afraid of anyone, that this is just a game. Just another day for them.

Eating with Jon is awkward, as they struggle to find something to talk about. Before the Reaping, they’d never even spoken. At school, they moved in different groups; Dany hung out with Daario or Rhaenys, while Jon was always with his cousins. It’s not that she never wanted to speak to Jon; she wanted to thank him, many times, for the bread. It just never seemed like the right time, and then one day, too much time had passed, and it felt like the moment to thank him had slipped through her fingers. He never mentions it, either, doesn’t even indicate he has any memory of that day.

Still, she can tell he’s uncomfortable sitting with her, too, the silence deepening between them for long stretches of time as the small talk quickly shrivels up.

“How did you get the bruise?” she asks on the last day, unprompted. By now the bruise on his cheek has started to fade.

Jon looks at her. “I told you. One of the guards.”

“But why did the guard hit you?”

He shakes his head. “Arya. My cousin.” Dany knows the girl, has seen her around the bakery and at school. She’s about Rhaenys’ age, maybe younger. “When her time was up, she refused to leave. She fought against them. They got a little rough with her.” His eyes cloud over at the memory. “I guess I lost my mind a little. The guard hit me with the butt of his gun.”

She stares at him, imagining what she would have done if they had done the same to Rhaenys. “I get it.”

Jon’s mouth pulls to the side. “I know you do.”

With a faint smile, she touches the dragon pin on her shirt; she wears it every day, if only to remind her of home. “Your uncle came to visit me.” At Jon’s confused look, she explains, “At the Justice Building. After seeing you, I suppose.”

“Oh.” Perplexed, he frowns. “I didn’t know.”

“He told me he would keep an eye on Rhaenys.” She doesn’t tell him he gave her the pin; she’s not sure how that will make Jon feel, and he doesn’t seem to recognize it, anyway.

He nods slowly. “If he said he would, then he will. He’s good like that.”

“He seems nice. I mean, he’s always been nice when I’ve traded with him.” Jon doesn’t say anything more, seemingly lost in thought, so Dany continues haltingly, “He told me about…about your mother.”

Alarmed, he cuts her a sharp look. “What?”

“She knew my brother in school. Rhaegar,” she hurries to explain. “They used to be in love. I didn’t know that. I mean, he never talked about it—”

She stops, noticing that his expression has darkened. “Well, she’s dead, so there’s not much to talk about now, is there? She died before I ever got the chance to know her.”

With that, he stands up from their table, snatching his tray up. Speechless, she watches him throw his trash away before leaving the gymnasium. He won’t go far, she knows; there are guards stationed around the Tribute Training Center to prevent anyone from trying to make a run for it.

After their lunch is over, Dany ventures to another station, alone. Eventually, Jon returns and joins her at the station, but he acts like nothing happened. She doesn’t bring up his mother or his uncle again.

At the end of the day, they start the private sessions with the Gamemakers. One by one, each tribute is called from the gymnasium. Dany and Jon continue their training until it’s their turn; as the tributes from the North, they’re the last to be called. Jon goes first.

“Good luck in there,” she calls to him, the first words they’ve spoken since lunch.

He looks back at her and nods stiffly. “You, too.” He pauses, then adds wryly, “Shoot straight.” Then he enters a separate room, adjacent to the gym. She waits alone for fifteen minutes before she’s finally called into the room. Jon is already gone; just like every tribute, he left through a separate door to return to their apartment.

Dany looks at the Gamemakers, high up on a balcony, far removed from where she is, and realizes she’s in trouble. They’ve been at this all afternoon, and now at the end of it, it’s obvious they’re ready to get it over with. They’ve probably been drinking, as they’re laughing and slapping each other on the back, talking loudly. They don’t even look at her when she walks in.

She announces herself, to get their attention. One man, with a pointed beard and gray streaks in his hair, looks her way and gestures for her to proceed. Taking a deep breath, Dany retrieves a bow and a sheath of arrows from a rack of weapons. She takes her position in the middle of the room and lines up her shot. It feels nice to have a bow in her hands again, but this one is heavier than she’s used to, the metal unyielding. The string is much too taut, like it’s new, and she knows she’s messed up the moment she releases the first arrow. She misses her target dummy by a few inches, and her face burns in humiliation as she hears murmurs of disappointment. Glancing at the Gamemakers, she sees that the few who were watching her have already turned away, disinterested.

Biting her tongue, she pushes back the tide of her shame and makes herself take a moment to warm up. She fires a few more practice arrows on a bullseye until she’s got the feel for the bow. Once she’s ready, she tries again, this time on the target dummy. She skewers it through the eye on the first try, then the heart. She fires another arrow, severing the rope that holds it up. It hits the floor with a resounding thud. Triumphantly, she looks to the Gamemakers again.

With horror, she sees they’re not paying any attention. Someone has rolled in a whole roasted pig, and the Gamemakers have gathered around it in excitement.

Righteous fury rushes through her. They don’t have the decency to pay her any attention, even with her life on the line! Angrily, she pulls another arrow from her sheath, aims, and sends it sailing through the air, right into the Gamemakers’ balcony. The arrow pierces the apple in the pig’s mouth, before sticking into the wall. The Gamemakers shout in alarm; the one with the pointed beard stumbles into a punch bowl, knocking it over. They whirl around to gape at her.

She gives a stiff bow. “Thank you for your consideration,” she says tightly, then throws the bow and sheath down before storming out of the room without waiting to be dismissed.

* * *

Dany takes the elevator to their apartment. She ignores her team when they call out to her as she runs past them to her room, slamming her door shut. She stays there, in her bed, the covers pulled up over her head. It’s only then, once her anger has faded, do the tears come. And with them comes the fear.

Gods, how could she be so stupid? Losing her temper that way and firing a weapon at a _Gamemaker_! They’ll hurt her for this, surely. Punish her somehow. Any minute, she expects guards to come for her, to drag her away, throw her in the Red Keep’s dungeons or just execute her without bothering with a trial. After a while, however, she begins to relax. Nobody knocks on her door, and her tears slow. They can’t punish her, she assures herself, not before the games. If they plan to hurt her, they can just do it in the games.

But they can still hurt her chances of winning, give her a score so low, no sponsor will bother with such a lost cause. It’s not a great outcome, but she supposes she brought it on herself. She should have been smarter, and this is the price of her impulsiveness.

Eventually, Varys knocks on her door to retrieve her for dinner. Dany washes her face, knowing there’s not much she can do about her puffy eyes. When she joins them at the table, everyone pretends they don’t notice that she’s been crying. She’s quiet as the rest chat about frivolous things between bites of food. Jon tries to catch her eye, but she refuses to look at him, embarrassed by her emotional outburst. She doesn’t want to have to explain to anyone what she did.

Unfortunately, Tyrion grows weary of the act. “Enough of this,” he says, looking at Jon and Dany. “Tell me what happened in your private sessions.”

Dany glares at her plate, so Jon speaks first. “It was a joke,” he says sourly. “When I went in, the Gamemakers weren’t even paying attention. They didn’t care. I threw some weights around like you said, then they dismissed me.”

Humming thoughtfully, Tyrion nods. Then he looks at Dany and gently asks, “What about you?”

She flushes, chewing on her lip before she mumbles, “I shot an arrow at them.”

Everyone stares at her. “You _what_?” Tyrion asks, astonished.

At their incredulous looks, she gets defensive. “I shot an arrow at them! At their roast pig, really.” At the memory, she feels another surge of resentment. “They just made me so mad! It’s like Jon said. They weren’t paying attention at all! I was shooting at the targets, and they wouldn’t even look at me. It was insulting.”

Shaking his head, Varys clucks in admonishment. “That was poor form of you, Daenerys.”

She scowls at him. “They’re trying to kill us! The least they could do is pay attention!”

“Your point is noted,” Tyrion says, then he sighs. “What did they say? After you shot their pig?”

“I don’t know,” she says stubbornly. “I walked out right after.”

“Well. That’s that, I guess.” He shrugs and reaches for a profiterole to eat. “Nothing to be done about it now.”

She looks at him doubtfully. “Am I in trouble?”

He snorts and pops the profiterole in his mouth. “What are they going to do?” he says through his mouthful. “Kill you before the games? No.”

“What about my family back home? They could hurt them, couldn’t they?” she asks, the thought sudden and paralyzing. He waves her worries away with his hand.

“No point to it. They can’t reveal what happens in your private sessions, so hurting your family won’t mean anything to anybody. They’ll probably just take it out on you in the arena.”

“Which they’ve already promised to do, anyway,” Jon interjects.

“Wouldn’t worry much more about it,” Tyrion adds, sipping his wine. After a moment, he chuckles. “What did they look like? When you shot their pig?”

Dany thinks back. “Shocked. Scared. Kind of ridiculous. One guy tripped into the punch.”

They all laugh at that, and Dany smiles, finally feeling a little better. They finish their dinner then gather around the TV to watch the announcement of the scores. The Careers all predictably get high scores. Most of the rest get low or middling scores, though the young girl from the Reach who reminds her of Rhaenys pulls a 6, which is impressive. The girl, whose name she learns is Missandei, looks so unassuming; Dany wonders what she did to impress the Gamemakers.

The North is the last to receive their scores; Jon is awarded a 7, and they all applaud him, delighted. When it’s her turn, Dany holds her breath, bracing for a zero. To her surprise, they flash a 10 under her picture. The highest score of the night. Everyone lets out a cry of shock, then they’re cheering for her, slapping her on the back. She’s too stunned to react.

“Why would they do that?” she asks Tyrion. He shrugs, smiling crookedly.

“Guess they like your spirit. They’ve got a show to put on, after all. They need tributes like you. Someone with fire.”

Melisandre lifts a glass to her. “To Daenerys, the girl on fire,” she salutes, and the others follow. Dany blushes, though she can’t deny that she feels a deep pleasure at their admiration. Her stylist smiles mysteriously at her. “Wait till you see your dress for your interview.”

* * *

The next morning, Dany feels strangely optimistic. Buoyed by her score from training, she showers and dresses before leaving her room for breakfast. It’s only Tyrion at the table, nibbling on a muffin.

“You overslept,” he tells her as she sits down. She shrugs.

“Guess I needed the rest,” she says as she fills her plate. It will be hard to sleep once she’s in the arena, so she wants to enjoy the few luxuries left to her.

Tyrion doesn’t say anything more as she eats, instead nursing a glass of juice. It finally dawns on her how strange it is that they’re the only two at breakfast.

“Where is everyone?” she asks.

“Preparing for the interviews. Which we should do as well.”

Tomorrow night all the tributes will be interviewed by Oberyn Martell, the host of the Hunger Games. It’s their last chance to appeal to sponsors, to make a statement. Dany has no idea what she’ll do for hers, but she’s hopeful between Tyrion, Varys and Melisandre, they’ll think up something worthwhile for her.

“OK. Should we wait for Jon?” she asks.

“Oh, he’s already eaten. He’s with Varys now, prepping for his interview,” Tyrion says dismissively. Dany frowns. She didn’t think she slept that late.

“Should I be with him?” She starts to push back from the table, but he waves her off.

“No. There’s been a change of plans.” Tyrion doesn’t quite look her in the eye when he says, “Jon asked to be coached separately from now on.”

His revelation momentarily stuns her, and all she feels is betrayal. She doesn’t know why Jon’s decision hurts her as much as it does. “Oh,” she says dumbly, wondering if her higher score is what caused him to change his mind.

It’s for the best, she decides. She and Jon are not friends. They are not a team. In two days, they will be enemies, just like every other tribute. Only one of them can win the games. It’s better for them both if they distance themselves now.

“Fine,” she says, with more conviction than she feels. She’s angry, though she knows she’s being foolish. “So, what’s my strategy for the interview?”

Tyrion eyes her critically. “Well, you’re not intimidating, that’s for sure.” She rolls her eyes as he continues, “You’re likable enough, but not very charming. Absolutely no sex appeal either.”

“I’m 16,” she replies, offended, and he gives her a look.

“Do you think that matters here?” He begins to tick off her failings on his fingers. “Let’s see. You’re not scary, you’re not sexy, and you’re not very funny.” He taps his chin in thought, but his assessment leaves her feeling much less optimistic than she was when she first woke up.

“So I’ve got nothing going for me, is what you’re saying,” she says hotly.

“No. You’ve got something,” he tells her. “It’s what I saw on Reaping Day. What the Gamemakers must have seen yesterday.”

“My fire?” she guesses scornfully. He smiles.

“Your courage. Your heart. When you volunteered for your niece, you did something no one else has done before.”

“Tributes volunteer all the time.”

“But to protect someone else, knowing it means certain death for them?” Tyrion shakes his head. “No. That was something else entirely.”

Reminded of Rhaenys, Dany swallows thickly and looks down. “I had to. She’s too young. You don’t know what she’s like. She’s so...soft.” She thinks about Rhaenys and how she cried for Balerion, how she still tears up every time he catches a mouse. Dany once tried to take her hunting, to teach her as Rhaegar had taught her; it had been a disaster. “She wouldn't last more than a day in the arena. I couldn’t...I couldn’t watch her die like that.”

“I know,” he says gingerly, then his tone turns bitter. “But you’re young, too. You all are.” She lifts her gaze to him, and he finishes his juice. “Anyway, the whole country saw you volunteer, so Oberyn will definitely bring it up. Reminding everyone of that moment will help you.”

“It wasn’t something I planned to do,” she says, and he scoffs.

“Exactly. You don’t need to be coached or trained what to say, and certainly not by me. You do best just being you.” He shrugs and smiles faintly. “So, I say, enjoy your last few hours of freedom while you can.” He grimaces. “At least until the stylists get their hands on you again.”

* * *

The day of the tribute interviews, Melisandre’s assistants work on Dany until late afternoon, scrubbing and exfoliating her skin until it’s shiny and pink once more. Then they stencil temporary patterns on her arms and paint little flames on her perfectly shaped fingernails. It’s obvious what Melisandre intends for her look tonight. The assistants braid her hair, weaving in streams of red and orange until it looks like strands of fire ring her crown. Then they paint her face, making her eyes huge and smoky, her lips full and red.

Finally, Melisandre enters the makeover room carrying a garment bag so Dany can’t yet see what she’ll be wearing. She’s relieved she won’t be naked this time.

“Close your eyes,” Melisandre orders, and Dany does as she says. She keeps her eyes squeezed shut as her stylist moves her to the middle of the room, naked, and lifts her arms over her head. Heavy, silken material is slipped over her head and glides down her body, fluttering around her legs. Melisandre zips it in the back and takes a moment to adjust the gown around her breasts and hips, smoothing it down her legs. Then, she speaks. “Now you can look.”

Dany opens her eyes, taking a moment to blink. She realizes she’s standing before a mirror. At her reflection, her breath catches. The dress she wears is covered in colorful precious gemstones, starting from the hem all the way to her bodice, ranging all the way from blue to white to yellow to orange. When she moves, they shimmer and glint with the light, giving the illusion of tiny moving flames.

“Oh, wow,” she whispers, turning to admire the back.

“That’s not all,” Melisandre says, circling her finger in the air. “Spin for me.”

Confused, Dany does as she says, trying to watch herself in the mirror. The prep team, watching from the sidelines, screams in excitement. Dany gasps, too, watching the way the light moves over the gemstones. The illusion makes it look as if the flames grow taller, fire moving up the dress, flickering around her breasts. _The girl on fire,_ she thinks.

“Enough,” Melisandre says, and Dany stops, head still spinning. She dismisses her assistants then takes Dany hands in hers. “Are you ready for your interview?”

“I don’t know,” Dany says. The reminder of the upcoming interview stirs a tempest of nerves in her belly. “I don’t know what I’m going to say. Tyrion didn’t really advise me on what to do. He said to just be myself.”

She smiles slightly. “And he’s right. He might be a drunk, but he’s clever. He won his games for a reason.”

It’s a thought Dany hasn’t exactly considered before now; how _did_ Tyrion win his games? It was before she was born, so she never saw them. There’s no question he would have been at a disadvantage in the arena. Without physical prowess, he would have had to have been very cunning to find another way to win. But despite Melisandre’s words, she isn’t exactly comforted; if he’s so clever, how come he’s never figured out how to help any other tributes from the North win?

Too soon, someone comes to tell them it’s time for the interviews. Melisandre leads her to the stage where the interviews will be filmed in front of a live audience. The tributes are herded on stage and seated in chairs where they will wait their turn to be interviewed. Jon is already seated, dressed in a simple black suit with similar flame accents, though the gemstones are noticeably absent on his outfit. Makeup completely vanishes what’s left of his bruise. His eyes are rimmed in black liner, and his hair falls across his forehead in a purposely tousled style. He looks breathtakingly handsome. The thought startles her.

She hasn’t seen him all day, not since he decided he wanted to be coached separately. When he spots her, he gives her a onceover, then looks away, indifferent. She scowls as she takes her seat beside him to wait.

Her knee bounces anxiously. She wishes she could go first and just get it over with, but being from the North, she knows she and Jon will be last once again.

When it’s time to start, Oberyn Martell walks onto the stage to raucous applause. He’s well beloved in King’s Landing. He’s been hosting the games for more than twenty years, but he doesn’t look like he’s aged a day. He waves to the crowd, then gestures for them to clap harder. The audience obeys, getting louder, some screaming, some letting out ear piercing whistles. They stomp their feet, the sound thundering through the auditorium. Oberyn eats it up, pretending to be humbled. Then he hushes them and takes his seat to introduce the first tribute, the girl from the Crownlands, Ygritte. She’s not particularly pretty, but she’s lethal and cocky, and she plays it up to the crowd’s delight.

When he asks her how such a petite girl like herself hopes to fare against much bigger competition, she snorts, “You know nothing, Oberyn Martell,” and the crowd just laughs and laughs and laughs. It’s all so nauseating.

The interviews only last three minutes, and Oberyn does his best to make each tribute shine, including the ones who are obviously paralyzed with fear, like little Missandei. Miraculously, Oberyn manages to make her smile before her time is up. Dany can see why he’s been the host for as long as he has.

The interviews go by far too quickly for Dany’s liking, and before long it’s her turn. On stiff legs, she walks to the center of the stage, keeping her eyes trained on Oberyn so she doesn’t look at the crowd and panic. It’s too bright to see much of anything, at least. Oberyn shakes her hand when she reaches him, but he’s more interested in her dress.

“Wow! You look like you’re on fire! Spin for us, please!” he exclaims. She does as he says, and the crowd _oohs_ and _ahhs_ , clapping wildly. Dany stumbles slightly in her heels, and Oberyn steadies her. Blushing, she laughs weakly. Blood rushes in her ears.

“Easy now,” he teases. “Your stylist obviously has a signature look. I think we all remember your opening ceremony costume.” He gives the audience a knowing leer, and they titter on cue.

“She does,” Dany says, feeling faint. It’s so hot under the stage lights. “Truthfully, I’m just glad to be wearing clothes this time.”

Oberyn laughs uproariously. “Oh, you’re a cheeky one, Miss Targaryen.” Once the crowd settles down, Oberyn takes his seat and gestures for her to do the same. She clasps her shaking hands in her lap.

“So, Daenerys. May I call you Daenerys? I imagine King’s Landing must be a far cry from Winterfell, where you’re from.”

It takes her a moment to realize he expects her to respond. “Oh, yes. It’s...it’s very different.”

“In what way would you say it differs the most?” Oberyn prods.

“It’s very warm,” she says lamely, but gods bless him, he laughs, and the audience follows.

“I bet it is! Is it true you get snow most of the year in the North?”

She takes a deep breath, willing the butterflies in her stomach to settle. “Feels more like all year, but yes.” She forces a smile when he laughs again, but she finds herself relaxing as he continues to make small talk with her. He keeps his questions light and friendly to start, congratulating her on her high score, but soon his face turns serious.

“Now, I must ask. The day of the Reaping, your niece’s name was called. You volunteered for her. I think I speak for us all when I say how touching that moment was. Can you tell us more about her, your niece?”

Dany focuses on a point beyond his shoulder, chewing on her lip. “Her name is Rhaenys. She’s only twelve. She’s my brother’s daughter, but...he passed away a few years ago. I swore to myself I would protect her.”

“Obviously, you’ve done a good job so far,” he coos. “What did she say to you? After the Reaping? She must have come to see you off.”

The crowd is dead silent, hanging onto every word. Dany takes a deep breath and forces the answer out. “She asked me to try to win.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told her I would try. For her.”

Oberyn pats her hand gently. “And I’m sure you will. For her.” He signals the end of the interview and wishes her good luck. Dany says nothing more as she rises and goes to join the other tributes, blinking back tears. She refuses to cry now.

She takes her seat as Jon stands for his interview. Once Jon is in the hot seat, Oberyn is back to his jovial self, asking questions to get Jon to open up, but he proves a difficult interview subject. Stone-faced, he gives mostly one-word answers about his family and his life back home in Winterfell. Realizing he’s being stonewalled, Oberyn digs harder.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Jon?”

Shaking herself from her daze, Dany finds herself leaning forward in her seat. Jon hesitates at the question before shaking his head. “No.”

With a sly smile, Oberyn needles Jon some more. “Come on. Handsome lad like you. You must have a special girl back home. You can tell us. We’re all friends, here, right?” The crowd responds accordingly.

Jon fidgets in his seat then sighs. “Well. There is this one girl…” He licks his lips. “I’ve...I’ve had a crush on her forever. But...I don’t think she even knew I was alive until the Reaping.”

The crowd reacts with sympathy, and Jon drops his gaze.

“Does she have a boyfriend?” Oberyn asks gently. He shrugs.

“I don’t know. There’s this one guy she’s always hanging out with, though. Lots of guys at school like her, too.”

Oberyn purses his lips in thought. “OK, so here’s what you do. You win the games, you go home. She can’t say no to you then, right?”

He smiles encouragingly, but Jon is shaking his head, absently tugging at his suit sleeves. “That...won’t work in my case.”

“Why ever not?” Oberyn asks, mystified.

Jon’s face turns bright red, and after a moment of hesitation he stammers out, “Because—because she came here with me.”

The crowd gasps in shock and disbelief, but it’s not until the screens on either side of the stage cut to her does Dany realize what he’s saying. _Me! He means me!_ Blushing wildly, she goes completely still as the camera lingers on her face a moment longer, then cuts back to Jon. He seems to have slumped down in his chair, shrinking into himself.

“I see,” Oberyn murmurs sympathetically. “That is a bit of bad luck, isn’t it?”

“You could say that,” Jon agrees tightly, his eyes still downcast. The crowd swoons, clearly moved by what they see as a classic tale of young love, doomed by circumstance.

Oberyn offers more meaningless platitudes of compassion, then dismisses Jon, who stands to vigorous applause and returns to his seat next to Dany. She doesn’t look at him, still mortified by his confession, but the cameras spend an inordinate amount of time focusing on them, side by side, only physically separated by a couple feet, but in reality, so much more.

With the interviews complete, Oberyn signs off, then the tributes are forced to stand for the anthem. Dany’s shock slowly gives way to anger, and by the end of the anthem, she’s trembling. The tributes are directed off the stage, and she brushes past Jon as they’re all herded to the elevators. Eager to get away from him, she squeezes into the first available elevator, already packed with tributes and their teams, not bothering to wait for him or the rest of their team. Some of the other tributes cut her sidelong looks, but she stares intently at the doors, willing the elevator to go faster.

Their apartment is all the way at the top of the Tribute Training Center, and there are a lot of passengers to unload before then, so by the time she reaches her floor, Jon is stepping off another elevator at the same time. Temper flaring, she charges him, slamming her hands into his chest to shove him. Caught off guard, he crashes into a table next to the elevator, knocking over a potted plant. He loses his balance and falls backward amid the ceramic shards and loose soil.

Aghast, he gapes at her. “What the hell was that for?”

“How dare you!” she seethes. “You had no right to say those things about me!”

Another elevator opens, and Tyrion, Varys and the stylists emerge. They take in the scene before them. “What happened? Did you fall?” Varys asks as Tyrion helps Jon to his feet.

“Yeah, after she pushed me,” Jon grunts, brushing the shards off on his pants.

“You pushed him?” Tyrion asks her, appalled.

“He humiliated me out there!” she says in her defense.

They look at her like she’s sprouted another head. “Humiliated you? How?” Tyrion demands.

She gestures wildly. “By making up that stupid story about me! Lying and saying he has a crush on me!”

Tyrion blinks then frowns, slowly shaking his head. “You’re a fool, you know that?”

Her eyes widen before narrowing into a scowl. “This was your idea, wasn’t it? Now I know why Jon asked to be coached alone. Why you didn’t even bother prepping me yesterday. You two cooked up this whole thing to embarrass me on TV!”

“Tyrion didn’t tell me to say a damn thing,” Jon interjects angrily. Kinvara hovers by him, dusting the soil off his knees. “It was my idea.”

At that, Dany is taken aback. “Why would you do that to me?” Her voice quivers. “You made me look like an idiot out there!”

“He made you look desirable,” Tyrion says, exasperated, and she stops cold. With a sigh, he waddles closer to her. “The way he tells it, everyone back home is in love with you. He gave you allure. Now, they all want you. You’re all they’re talking about. The star-crossed lovers from Winterfell.”

Her cheeks fill with heat. “But we’re not,” she insists, and he rolls his eyes.

“So what? The truth doesn’t matter. This is all a big show. They want a story, and he gave it to them. Everybody’s going to want to sponsor you two now.”

She doesn’t know what to think. Melisandre comes over to her and puts a hand on her shoulder. “He’s right, Daenerys.”

Her previous indignation starts to deflate. “Someone should have told me,” she objects weakly. “I should have known, so I didn’t look so stupid out there.”

“No, it was perfect how it was,” Melisandre tells her gently. “Your reaction was genuine. It’s better you didn’t know beforehand.”

“She’s just worried about what her boyfriend will think,” Jon says gruffly, pulling a stubborn shard of pot out of his palm.

He’s talking about Daario, she realizes; that’s who he meant on stage, the boy she always hangs out with. Her face goes hot again. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I bet he’s smart enough to know a bluff when he sees one.”

“Are you saying I’m stupid?” she bites off.

“No, just incredibly oblivious, apparently.”

She opens her mouth to retort, but Tyrion puts an end to their back-and-forth. “Enough, both of you.” He peers at her. “Daenerys, don’t you get it yet? He _helped_ you.”

She goes quiet, letting his words sink in, torn between feeling like she’s been duped and feeling like she’s been given a huge advantage. With her temper cooling, she’s suddenly embarrassed by her reaction. And feeling guilty, too; Jon’s done her a huge favor, yet again, the gods only know why, and how does she repay him? By lashing out.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him. “Are your hands OK?”

He just shrugs it off. “It’s fine,” he says, but she can see the beads of blood welling up where the shards punctured his skin.

“Take care of that, will you?” Tyrion tells Kinvara, who leads Jon away to deal with his hands. The others follow them into the apartment. Dany goes to her room to take off her gown in favor of a simple shirt and loose slacks, then heads to the dining room to eat with the others. Eventually, Jon and Kinvara rejoin them. He’s changed out of his suit, and his hands have been bandaged.

The sight fills Dany with remorse, and she eats her soup in silence, overwhelmed by the events of the day. She doesn’t know why Jon would help her, why he would lie. Unless he isn’t lying. The thought brings her up short. Did he mean what he said on stage? But no, it seems absurd to even consider. Most of the time, he can barely seem to tolerate her.

The dinner is tense, with Tyrion and Varys doing their best to fill the awkward silence by trading lighthearted barbs. Afterward, they move to the living room to watch a recap of the interviews. Dany can barely watch herself on screen, and when it’s Jon’s turn, she cringes all over again as the cameras cut to her blindsided reaction.

Otherwise, Dany can see what Tyrion means, how the crowd reacts, how the commentators narrating the recap gush about the tributes from the North. It’s all they talk about afterward. Once again, they have stolen the show—this time, solely thanks to Jon.

Once the recap is over, Tyrion turns the TV off, and a hush falls over them. Tomorrow, at dawn, they will awake to prepare for the arena. The games don’t start till ten a.m., but the tributes must make the journey from the Tribute Training Center to the arena in an undisclosed location. It’s the last time either Dany or Jon will see their mentor and escort before the games; the two will be working from the Games Headquarters with all the other mentors, trying to secure sponsors and gifts for their tributes. For now, they must say goodbye here.

Varys takes Jon and Dany’s hands in his. “I wish you both good fortune in the games to come.” With that, he bows and leaves the room. Tyrion considers them quietly.

“Any final words of advice?” Jon asks solemnly.

“When the gong sounds to start the games, both of you get the hell out of there. You hear me? Neither of you are up for the bloodbath that happens at the start. Put as much distance between you and the other tributes. Find water.”

They nod. “Then what do we do?” Dany asks.

Tyrion’s smile is humorless. “Stay alive.” No one laughs this time, and he sighs as he stands from the couch. “Try to get some sleep now. Easier said than done, I know, but trust me. You’re going to need it.”

* * *

Despite their mentor’s advice, Dany finds sleep eludes her that night. She tosses and turns, her anxiety and dread slowly mounting until she gives up the pretense of sleep altogether, staring at the ceiling as she imagines every possible worst-case scenario for tomorrow. She could be dead in less than twelve hours.

With her heart in her throat, she gets out of bed and slips out of her room. It’s too stifling, too suffocating. She needs fresh air. Desperately, she hurries for the stairwell that leads to the roof of the Tribute Training Center. At the top, she halts when she finds the door cracked, a small statue taken from the console table downstairs propping it open. Someone else must have had the same thought as her.

Curiously, she opens the door wider to peer out. Somehow, she’s not surprised to find Jon has already beat her outside. His back is to her as he leans against the wall, peering over the side at the streets below. He doesn’t yet know she’s there; she debates turning around and returning to her room, but there’s so much left unsaid between them, and she’s not sure she wants to go into the games tomorrow with it unresolved.

Her feet move soundlessly across the rooftop. When she’s only a few feet away from him, she speaks. “Tyrion said we should get some sleep.”

He starts but doesn’t turn around. “Then what are you doing up?” he replies without looking at her.

She moves to join him at the wall. “Same as you, I imagine.” She peers over the side to see what he’s looking at. Below, the streets are filled with people, all dancing and singing. “Looks like they’re enjoying themselves,” she remarks drolly.

“Someone should, I suppose,” he says. Her smile is wan, fleeting, then she notices the bandages on his hands again.

“I am really sorry about pushing you,” she says, chagrined, but he shrugs.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, resigned. “It’s not like I ever stood a chance in the arena, anyway.”

She regards him with dismay. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true, isn’t it? Even my family knows it. No one expects me to come back. And with you there—” He stops himself then shakes his head, still staring down at the streets. “My only hope now is not to disgrace myself. And…” He hesitates.

“And what?” she prods, confused.

He lifts his shoulder, his brow furrowed deep in thought. “I don’t know how to say it. Only...if I’m going to die, I want to still be me. I don’t want them to change me in there. Turn me into something I’m not. Some kind of monster.”

She frowns, not understanding. “Do you mean you won’t kill anyone?”

He huffs out a breath. “No, I’m sure when it comes to it, I’ll kill just like anyone else. I’m not going down without a fight.” He finally looks at her. His eyes are hard, determined. “I just wish I could think of a way to show them…” He gestures to the crowds below. “That they don’t own me. That I’m not just a piece in their games.”

“But you are. We all are. That’s how the games work.”

He sighs, frustrated. “Yes, but I can still be _me_. Don’t you get it?”

She chews on her lip. “Not really, no. I’m just thinking about doing whatever I can to survive.”

When he looks at her then, his smile is mocking. “OK, Daenerys. You do that.”

His patronizing response hurts, which only makes her angry. “I will. You can waste your time waxing poetic about how to die some noble death. I’d rather focus on winning.”

“And I’m sure you will,” he says, but it still sounds mocking. “Give my aunt my regards when you return, won’t you?”

“You can count on it,” she snaps and turns on her heel to stalk back to the rooftop door, leaving him behind.

* * *

She spends the rest of the night in a restless state, stewing angrily over Jon’s words and condescension. Cutting remarks she wishes she had said to him only come to her much too late. As the dawn creeps into her room, she tries to push thoughts of him aside. She’ll see just how high and mighty he is once his life is on the line.

By the time Melisandre comes to retrieve her, Dany is already up and showered, sitting at the foot of her bed. She’s given a simple shift to put on, then she’s led to the rooftop where a hovercraft waits to take her to the arena; there, in the catacombs below the arena, her final dressing and preparations will take place. Inside the hovercraft, she sits next to Melisandre. A woman in a white coat approaches her with a syringe. “This is your tracker,” she tells her soothingly when she sees Dany’s look of alarm. She jabs her in the arm and injects her with a tiny metal tracking device, so the Gamemakers will be able to keep track of her location and vital signs. It only hurts for a second before the area goes numb.

The flight takes a half hour. The windows are blacked out so Dany can’t see where they’re going. On the way there, she eats as much as she can despite the nerves knotting her stomach. She knows it might be a while before she eats again; after this point, she will have to hunt down her next meals.

When they reach the arena, she and Melisandre climb down a ladder from the hovercraft into the catacombs, then they’re led to a chamber for her preparation. The Launch Room, they call it. There, Melisandre dresses her in a simple black shirt and green canvas pants with sturdy leather boots. Overtop, she wears a hooded black jacket. Melisandre informs her that the material is designed to reflect her body heat back to her. “Which means you can expect some cold nights,” she warns her. Every tribute will be dressed the same, as they are every year. This time, her stylist doesn’t bother with any makeup and plaits her hair in a simple braid.

Melisandre completes the outfit by pinning Dany’s dragon pin on her jacket. “Your token from home,” she says, brushing her fingers over the pin. Dany touches it, too. “How do the clothes feel?”

Dany moves around, lifting her arms up and down. “Fits perfectly.”

“Good. Now we wait,” Melisandre intones. They sit down, and Dany takes small sips of water. It’s all she can keep down now. She’s too nervous to talk, but Melisandre takes her hand, holding it tightly. Dany is grateful.

Finally, a strangely pleasant voice announces through an intercom that it’s time to prepare for launch. They rise, and Melisandre walks Dany to a circular metal plate that will lift her into the arena. She takes her place on it, her knees shaking. “Don’t lock your legs,” Melisandre tells her. “You might faint before the gong even sounds.”

Dany nods, and Melisandre continues, “Remember what Tyrion told you. Run. Find water. I know you can handle the rest.” Her stylist touches her face, lifting her chin up. Her red eyes seem to dance. “I’m betting on you, girl on fire.”

Dany swallows. “Thank you,” she whispers.

A glass cylinder lowers, and Melisandre steps back as it encases Dany completely. It begins to rise, and for a few seconds, she’s pitched into complete darkness. Her heart lurches into her throat, pounding in her ears, and she gasps for air as her fear ratchets up. Then, suddenly, she’s in open air. Light blinds her, and she squints against it, her eyes struggling to see. She can feel a soft breeze on her face; with it, it brings the scent of earth and pine.

Just as her eyes finally adjust, the voice of the legendary announcer, Robert Baratheon, booms all around her.

“Let the seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will come Thursday. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that the 74th Hunger Games have begun, Dany and Jon are in a fight for their lives. Surprising alliances are formed, and Dany finds help in unexpected ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to aliciutza for beta'ing and making the moodboard! She keeps knocking it out of the park <3

* * *

Dany blinks rapidly, shielding her eyes against what she soon realizes is the late morning sun. On either side of her stands a tribute, positioned some distance away on a circular metal plate. All twenty tributes are fanned out in a circle around a large, metal cornucopia that overflows with all sorts of goodies: weapons, food, water, anything you could want to survive in the wild.

Everything you’ll need to win.

Overhead, in the sky, is a large digital countdown. They have sixty seconds to get their bearings before the gong sounds, officially kicking off the games, sixty seconds and not a second sooner; as with every games, there are mines placed around each tribute’s plate to prevent them from stepping off too soon and are only deactivated once the countdown reaches zero.

Dany uses this time to survey her surroundings. What she sees gives her hope: They’re on a flat, open field of grass and dirt. To her right is a lake; to her left, nothing, indicating either a cliff or a steep drop-off. Behind her is an expansive, piney forest. She knows that’s where she must head. The lake is an obvious source of water, but it’s too open; she’d be an easy target there. No doubt the Careers will stake their claim to it first.

Thirty seconds left. Dany looks back at the cornucopia longingly. There are items that litter the ground between the tributes and the horn, and it’s tempting to go for them. Of course, the more crucial items are at the cornucopia itself, but within feet of her are a sheet of plastic that would be good against rain, a loaf of bread, and, a bit farther in, a backpack that might contain any number of useful provisions. She could make a dash for the closest items before heading for the woods; she’s small, but fast. She guesses at least half of the tributes will head for the cornucopia for a weapon, so she would still have plenty of time to get away before they start attacking.

Her eyes dart to the cornucopia again, to all the swords and spears. At the mouth of the horn, atop a pile of weapons, she spots a silver bow and a metal quiver full of arrows. Her chest tightens. If she could just get her hands on them! She knows she doesn’t stand a chance without a weapon. She could probably make it to the horn before anyone else, but by the time she grabs the bow, the others will be on her. She would have to fight her way out of there, and a bow is mostly useless in close quarters against a sword or a spear.

Still—with a bow, she’d be nearly unstoppable...

She’s almost made up her mind to risk it, to run for the cornucopia, when she finally spots Jon, five tributes to her right. He’s looking directly at her, and as if he can read her mind, he gives a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.

And then the gong sounds, and it’s too late, she’s missed her chance! The other tributes are already running for the cornucopia, and she knows she’s lost precious seconds as her feet shuffle indecisively, unsure which direction her brain wants her to go, to the woods or the cornucopia. Frustrated, she dives forward and snatches up the plastic and the loaf of bread. She darts for the backpack, too, but another tribute grabs it just as she does. They struggle for it, neither willing to release their hold, when the other tribute jerks suddenly, coughing blood into her face. His hold on the backpack goes slack, and she stumbles back, horrified, as he drops to his knees and pitches forward, face-first onto the ground. A knife handle protrudes from his back. She jerks her gaze up to see the red-haired tribute from the Crownlands—Ygritte—running right for her, a handful of knives clutched in her fist.

The horror of the realization is lightning-fast: Tributes have already reached the weapons and are now on the attack. And Dany is this girl’s next target.

When she sees Ygritte pluck another knife from her fist, adrenaline kicks in. Dany pivots on her heel, slinging the backpack over one shoulder as she sprints toward the woods, as hard and as fast as she can. Just as she reaches the treeline, she feels more than hears the knife hit her backpack. A few steps into the forest, she dives behind a tree for cover, but no more knives come whizzing by her. Likely, Ygritte won’t pursue her into the woods, not when she can have her pick of more vulnerable targets at the cornucopia. Only once the bloodbath is over, once the Careers have secured their provisions, will they go on the hunt.

Dany gives herself a moment to catch her breath, shoring up her courage, before she peeks around the tree. As she guessed, Ygritte has returned to the cornucopia to engage in the melee. Several tributes lay dead on the ground already, but others still run for cover, far away from the cornucopia. She swipes at her face, and her hand comes away red with blood. The face of the boy tribute flashes through her mind—that split second of terror that preceded that flicker of awful realization—and, frantically, she tugs her sleeve over her hand to scrub her chin clean.

She thinks of the knife that killed him, and the one that Ygritte sent her way. Pulling her backpack around, she finds the knife blade lodged in the water-proof material. Victorious, she yanks it free. Ygritte has unintentionally given her a gift. Now, she has a way to feed herself. Now, she has a way to protect herself.

Later, when she knows she’s safe and far, far away, she will riffle through the bag to see what else she has, but for now, she shoves the bread and plastic inside, secures the straps over her shoulders, then scrambles to her feet.

After one last glance at the field, she realizes she doesn’t see Jon. He’s not among those hacking away at each other, but neither is he among the dead on the ground. Her heart gives a funny squeeze. He probably ran for the woods as soon as the gong sounded, just like Tyrion advised. _Good_ , she tells herself; despite their last contentious conversation, she doesn’t wish him dead. Part of her wonders if they’ll cross paths again—but, no, it’s better if they don’t. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if forced to confront him, here, in the games, and she hopes to never find out.

Leaving the cornucopia and the other tributes behind, Dany takes off running again, only slowing once she feels she’s put enough distance between her and immediate danger. She maintains a steady pace for a while, alternating between a walk and a jog as she navigates the unfamiliar woods. The terrain is manageable enough, not much different from the wolfswood back home. She knows the first thing she needs to do is find water; nothing is more critical to her survival. She might be able to last a week or so without food, but without water, she’ll be dead in a few days. Sooner, even. For the first few hours of her trek, however, there’s no water to be found, no stream or pond. She almost fears the lake is the only source, but something has to be feeding it; she just has to find it.

Coming across a thicket of small trees, Dany finally decides to give herself a brief respite. She crouches amid the camouflage of the shrubbery to search through the contents of her backpack. Inside she finds a thin sleeping bag, a pack of jerky and a pack of crackers. It’s not a lot of food, but with the bread, she can go at least a couple days without having to hunt. In addition to the sheet of plastic, she pulls out a box of matches, a rope, and a gallon-size plastic bottle with its own purifying kit. The bottle is, unfortunately, empty.

She sighs. Of course, they wouldn’t have filled it up. That would be too easy. The sight of the empty bottle makes her aware of just how thirsty she is; she’s been running all day, sweating out all the water she drank that morning. Already, her mouth and throat are parched. Disheartened, she stuffs everything back into the pack. The knife she puts inside her belt so she can pull it out easily if needed. She’s just about to stand when she finally hears the cannons.

Each shot represents a dead tribute. The cannons normally sound as soon as each tribute is dead, but on the first day, they wait till after the initial bloodbath is finished to announce each death. She listens, counting each one in her head. Seven. Out of twenty tributes, seven are already dead. She won’t know until nighttime which tributes. At the same time every night, once dusk has fallen, the Gamemakers will play the national anthem and broadcast memorials of the fallen.

Which means she won’t know for a few more hours yet whether Jon is among the living or the dead. Grimly, she pushes the thought aside and gets to her feet to continue her hike. For now, all she can do is keep going.

* * *

By nightfall, she still hasn’t found water. She’s been hiking for hours, and she knows she needs to make camp before it gets dark. She’s not safe on the ground, not from other tributes or possible predators, so when dusk begins to approach, she finds a sturdy-looking tree and scales it till she’s high enough off the ground to be out of anyone’s sight and reach should they come upon her.

Settling on a thick, forked branch, she pulls out the bread and slices off a couple pieces with her knife, chewing on it slowly. It’s dry, and it’s hard to swallow, with her already parched throat, but she hasn’t eaten since morning, and her all-day hike has exerted all her energy. She needs to refuel, but she also needs to make her provisions last as long as possible. The bites of bread don’t do much to sate her hunger, so she allows herself two pieces of jerky but no more. She’s survived much longer with far less, she reminds herself with somber determination.

After she’s done eating, Dany pulls out her sleeping bag and shoves her bag into the foot of it before carefully wriggling inside it for warmth. It’s already feeling much cooler than it was, and without the option of starting a fire, she’ll need to conserve her body heat. The jacket should help some, too. For extra security, Dany unravels some of the rope from her backpack and wraps it around her and the tree branch a few times before securing it with a loose knot; this way, if she moves in her sleep, she won’t fall.

She’s just pulled up her hood to hunker down when the anthem starts. The Crown sigil of the lion appears in the sky, which she knows is really just one giant screen. The whole arena is a self-contained environment controlled by the Gamemakers. Not even the weather is real.

The anthem ceases, and the sky temporarily goes dark. Then the death count starts, featuring images of all the fallen tributes. At home, and all across Westeros, they’ll be watching a full recap of every gruesome death, but here in the arena, the surviving tributes are kept mostly in the dark as to how the others died, and at whose hand.

Up first are both tributes from the Vale, Robin and Mya, followed by the tributes from Dorne, Arianne and Edric. It’s not too surprising as neither is a region that benefits from extensive wealth or illegal training, but Dany recognizes Edric as the boy she tussled with over the backpack before Ygritte’s knife got him in the back. Reflexively, she brushes a hand over her face, as if his blood still stains her skin, and is momentarily racked with guilt, even though she wasn’t the one who killed him. He might have survived if she hadn’t delayed him. But, instead, she could be the one whose photo is in the sky right now, her body already on its way back to Winterfell, and she can’t help but be grateful it’s not.

Dany is surprised to see the girl tribute, Jeyne, from the Iron Islands next. The Iron Islanders are part of the Career Tributes and usually make it far in the games. They’re a bit of an anomaly in that they’re not wealthy or in close proximity to the Crown, but they’re ruthless and brutal by nature. Over the years, they’ve boasted a fair number of victors and gradually earned the respect of the Crownlands and Westerlands.

The boy tribute from the Neck, Lommy, is next, and the last tribute to appear is Wylla from the Stormlands, then the sky goes dark for good. Which means Jon is still alive. At the revelation, relief floods through her, and she pulls her hood over her head as she nestles down into her sleeping bag. It’s confusing, how she feels, because his continued survival could present problems for her in the future, but she doesn’t want him to die. He’s hard to read: He can be cruel, sometimes, but also unfathomably kind; he was kind to her when he owed her nothing, when no one else would give her a second glance. If she were to die in the arena, she would want him to win the games. She tells herself his victory would be good for Winterfell and her family, as a win means every person from the winning region receives an extra year’s supply of grain and oil.

Closing her eyes to sleep, Dany tries to figure out who else is alive. Herself and Jon, of course. Theon from the Iron Islands; the other Careers, Joffrey and Ygritte from the Crownlands, and Val and Ramsay from the Westerlands; the young girl from the Reach, Missandei, and her tribute partner, Grey; the boy tribute from the Stormlands, Gendry, and the girl from the Neck, Alys; and both tributes from the Riverlands, Margaery and Jojen. That means thirteen tributes survived the first day. It’s more than most years.

Exhausted by her long hike and her lack of sleep the previous night, Dany manages to nod off fairly quickly for a few hours. At some point in the middle of the night, she’s awoken by the snap of a twig, followed by the rustling of leaves. She goes deathly still, turning her face into her sleeping bag to silence the sound of her breathing. She fears a large predator is on the hunt, or, worse, the Careers have tracked her down; she can only hope the tree conceals her and her black sleeping bag. After a moment, the rustling stops, and more snaps follow. It sounds like someone is purposely breaking branches. A few yards somewhere to her right. Another moment later, she sees a spark, then a flame, and a small fire flickers in the darkness.

She bites her lip to stop her scream of frustration. Some idiot has started a fire in the dead of night, no doubt to keep warm as the temperature has dropped significantly. But their desperation has just broadcast their location to any killer who might be nearby—like the Careers. And this person’s stupidity has put Dany in danger, too.

Dany spends the next couple of hours stewing silently, not daring to move. She can’t make out anything, but the fire continues to burn as the person feeds it. After a while, the flames eventually dim; the tribute must have fallen asleep. Dany is too alert to do the same.

At the first signs of dawn, she begins to think that maybe the fire starter has managed to go unnoticed when she hears it: approaching footsteps. They’re slow and careful to start, then all at once the culprits break into a run, descending on the oblivious tribute, who awakens too late to escape. Dany hears the pleas and the agonized screams that follow. It’s a girl, she realizes now, though she still can’t make anyone out.

Dany’s body trembles in fear, and she presses her hand to her mouth, afraid she’ll make a sound. Once the gruesome deed is done, the killers cheer and congratulate each other. There are several voices. Despite the torches and flashlights they carry, it’s too dark to see who they are, but she doesn’t need to see them to know it’s the Careers. Only the Careers would be so bloodthirsty, so celebratory after having just killed someone in cold blood. They always hunt in a pack at the start of the games, picking off the weaker tributes before eventually turning on each other.

“Eight down, eleven more to go!” someone crows triumphantly, a boy, rousing another round of cheers. Even in the dark, she recognizes Joffrey’s voice; she heard a lot of it during training, as he loves to hear himself talk.

She listens to them root through the supplies of the girl they just killed. Then they start to clear out so the Gamemakers can send in a hovercraft to retrieve the dead body. They stop a few paces away, close to her tree, and wait, but after a few minutes no hovercraft appears.

“Where is it?” one of the Careers wonders, agitation evident in her voice. Dany begins to fear that maybe _she’s_ too close to the dead tribute, preventing the hovercraft from coming, when another says, “I never heard a cannon.”

“Maybe she’s not dead yet,” a different girl says.

“She’s dead. I stuck her myself,” Joffrey growls.

“Someone should go make sure.”

“I said she’s dead! You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

They all start to argue when one of the other tributes silences them. “Shut up, all of you! We’re wasting time. I’ll go finish her myself.”

At the sound of that unexpected voice, Dany nearly falls out of the tree.

The voice belongs to Jon. Which means he’s working with the Careers.

Thank the gods she had the foresight to strap herself to the tree; the only thing keeping her secured is the rope looped around her waist and the tree. Gripping tightly to her sleeping bag, she holds her breath, her heart in her throat as she prays they didn’t hear her movement.

“Go on, Lover Boy,” one of the boys taunts. “Take care of it, then.”

Dany sees a silhouette move toward the dead tribute’s camp and finally catches a glimpse of his face in the light of his torch. Jon looks pretty scraped up, multiple contusions on his face, bandages, a split lip. He disappears into the darkness, and in his absence the tributes resume whispering. She strains her ears to listen.

“We should just kill him now and be done with it.”

“He’s been useful so far. Besides, he’s our best chance of finding her.”

Someone scoffs. “You really think she fell for that bullshit love story?”

“She seemed stupid enough to me.” They snicker, and Dany tenses, realizing they’re talking about _her_.

“Wish we knew how she got that 10 in training.”

Joffrey leers. “Bet Lover Boy knows.” He makes a gesture she can’t quite see, but judging by their laughter, it’s crude and insulting. Her hackles rise, but she bites down on her lip, hard. Jon returns then, and the Careers stop talking before he can hear them.

“Well? Was she dead?” a girl demands. Ygritte, maybe.

He wipes a knife off on his pants, and a cannon finally fires. “She is now.”

The girl laughs, seemingly delighted. “So ruthless. I love it.” She moves closer to him. “You impress me, Snow. I bet your little girlfriend doesn't appreciate this side of you, does she?” Gods, are they _flirting_?

“Can we move on?” Jon says bluntly, ignoring her.

Dany waits as the Career pack leaves, not daring to move until they’re well out of earshot. Then she waits a few more minutes just to be sure. Her mind reels, and she’s glad her face is hidden from the cameras as she tries to gather her thoughts, consumed with anger and betrayal and disbelief. How could he team up with the Careers? They’re despicable, hateful, coldblooded killers. And he had the audacity to lecture _her_ about honor the night before the games! What a hypocrite!

Is he helping them track her? What she heard indicates he is, but for some reason he hasn’t yet told them about her skills with the bow and arrow. Is he saving that information as his ace up his sleeve for when they inevitably try to kill him? What is his endgame, exactly? It doesn't make sense. He must know everyone back home will hate him for this, not only for teaming up with the Careers but for working against his own tribute partner. Unless...it’s another one of his tricks, like his confession of love in the interview. Because it must have been a trick; she doesn’t believe for a second he meant it now, not if he's already making moves on someone else. In light of all this subterfuge, just what kind of story must Robert Baratheon be spinning for the audience back in King’s Landing? Has Jon completely shattered all pretense of a star-crossed romance? What is going on inside his head?

As she agonizes over his motivations, the hovercraft finally appears, dropping a large set of metal teeth that scoops the dead tribute’s body from the ground, then it’s gone. Dawn has finally broken when she unwinds the rope from the tree and coils it back up to put in her bag. Then she quickly rolls up her sleeping bag and shoves it into the backpack as well. She has to get moving.

Putting the backpack on, Dany shimmies down the trunk of the tree, dropping to her feet when she’s close enough to the ground. Only then does she push her hood back from her head. As she stands, she keeps her face expressionless; whatever Jon’s angle, she doesn’t want anyone watching to think she’s been caught off guard. Maybe they’ll even think she’s in on the ruse—if it is one. She doesn’t know what to think, but it doesn’t matter. Jon and his reasons mean nothing to her now. She was always going to be on her own in the arena.

She decides to head east, in the opposite direction the Careers have gone. Her priority is still to find water, and fast.

* * *

By late afternoon, Dany knows she’s in trouble. It’s been more than 24 hours since she’s had a drop of water, and she’s extremely dehydrated. Her movements have slowed drastically, and her breathing is pained and labored. Her head pounds, and her lips are dry and cracked. The hot sun overhead doesn’t help, even with the canopy of shade offered by the trees. She pulls her hood back up to help shade her from the sun.

At some point, she stumbles across a berry bush and eagerly strips the fruit, desperate to suck whatever juice she can from them. However, just before she pops them into her mouth, she gets a good look at them. What she thought were elderberries are something else entirely. They’re bigger, and when she splits one open, the juice inside is a deep purple. She knows they’re not safe to eat unless she knows what they are; they could be poisonous. Deadly, even. Despairing, she drops them on the ground and wipes her hands on her pants.

She keeps moving, but she doesn’t get much farther. Exhaustion is quickly creeping on her, so she stops to make camp, eating some crackers and jerky. Her dehydration only exacerbates her hunger, but making herself swallow even those few bites of food is painful. Once the sun begins to set, she gives up and climbs a tree to strap herself in for the night, hoping a good night’s rest will clear her head and restore some of her energy. She’s so tired, she can’t even find it in herself to worry about the threat of the Careers finding her while she sleeps.

The next morning is worse. It takes her longer to get up and moving. She tries to eat, but finds she has almost no appetite now when all she can think about is her all-consuming thirst. She’s almost desperate enough to return to the lake at the cornucopia, but she knows, as weak as she is, she won’t stand a chance if the Careers see her. And given how far she’s traveled by now, she’d never make it all the way back to the lake before dropping dead.

There’s no hope of rain, either, as the sky overhead is entirely cloudless once again. The Gamemakers could send a deluge of rainwater if they wanted to, but, of course, they don’t.

Tyrion could help her, she thinks suddenly. He can send her water. Surely, he’s lined up some sponsors by now. Water wouldn’t be too expensive this early in the games. Why hasn’t he helped her? Has he decided to back Jon entirely and left her to fend for herself? He couldn’t be that cruel, could he? He wouldn’t want his tributes to die of thirst. The people back home wouldn’t stand for it. So why won’t he help her?

Unless...unless he wants to save their gifts. Unless he thinks she’s capable of finding water on her own. Maybe he’s sending her a message: _You’re almost there._

Her determination renewed, Dany ungracefully clambers down the tree to move on. She’s no longer sure what direction she’s heading, but she doesn’t stop walking.

Hours pass without any luck. It’s finally too much; she trips over a root and collapses to her knees, but she doesn’t have the energy to get back up. This is the end, she thinks. She was wrong about Tyrion. He’s not trying to help her. She’s been completely abandoned in the arena.

It’s not so bad, at least. She’s almost too delirious to feel the pain radiating through her; the air is cooler this close to the ground, too. It must be nearing evening. Yes, the ground feels strangely _pleasant_ against her cheek; she stretches her hand out, clawing her fingers through the earth. It feels silky between her fingers, luxurious and wet.

_Wet._ Her eyes snap open. Mud! She must be near water!

With the last of her strength, she pushes to her hands and knees. Then she begins to crawl forward, inch by inch, ever so slowly dragging her weak body through a tangle of brush. When she emerges on the other side, she nearly tips head-first into a pond.

At the sight, Dany lets out a dry sob. “Oh, _thank the gods._ ”

Somehow, she has enough restraint to refrain from dunking her face straight into the water to lap it up. Instead, hands trembling, she retrieves the plastic bottle from her bag and removes the purifying kit before filling it. Then she adds a couple drops of iodine and makes herself wait. It’s hard, but she manages, smoothing her wet fingertips across her cracked lips. It’s oddly soothing. Once enough time has passed, she makes herself take small sips from the water bottle. Not too much, or she knows she’ll quickly be in agony. She drinks slowly, until she’s finished first one gallon, then another.

As her energy returns, she eats, too. It’s amazing how much better she already feels, having rehydrated. The sun eventually sets, and the anthem plays. There are no new deaths today. Were there any the night before? She realizes she can’t remember; she was too out of it by the time the daily death recap played.

As much as she wants to just fall asleep right there by the pond, she knows she’s not safe on the ground, so she makes herself climb a nearby tree and wiggles inside her sleeping bag. For the first time in days, with a nice meal and water in her belly, she feels content. This pond can be her home for now; she can set up snares for the smaller animals that come here to drink. There might even be fish in it. She will be safe here, at least for a while.

As she slips off into sleep, she’s actually feeling optimistic about what’s to come.

* * *

Of course, the Gamemakers have other plans for her.

At dawn, she’s jarred from her sleep by a stampede of feet. Terrified, she reaches for her knife, thinking the Careers have found her, but when she looks down from her perch all she sees are rabbits and squirrels running past her, followed by a herd of deer. Confused, she looks in the direction they’re running from—and immediately understands why.

A wall of fire is moving through the woods, consuming everything in its path.

She slips out of the tree, landing in a heap in her sleeping bag, but immediately she scrambles to her feet. There’s no time to pack; luckily, everything is already inside her sleeping bag, so she throws it over her shoulder and takes off running behind the deer. They’re faster than her, however, more nimble and sure-footed in this terrain, and in her panicked state, she finds herself stumbling and tripping over unseen debris. She quickly loses track of the animals, the fire bearing down on her. She can feel the heat at her back, and soon sweat is pouring down her face. Thick smoke surrounds her, stinging her eyes and burning her lungs, making it hard to breathe, but she doesn’t stop running, driven by pure survival instinct.

She’s running blindly, not sure where she’s going; all she can do is stay ahead of the fire. It’s obvious this is the Gamemakers’ doing; the fire is unnatural, moving too deliberately, too precisely. Things must have been getting too boring for the audience’s liking. Distantly, she wonders how close the other tributes are, if they’re being driven together, but at the moment she doesn’t have the wherewithal to worry about running into them.

Eventually, the smoke overwhelms her, the acrid air filling her lungs. She begins hacking, and she has to stop by a boulder to shelter behind as she retches, dropping to her knees. She vomits up water and her meager supper from the night before, then all that’s left to throw up is stomach acid until her lungs and stomach finally stop convulsing. Tears and smoke cloud her vision, mixing with the sweat on her face, and she wipes futilely at them. She huddles by the boulder, shaking violently, giving herself a moment to gather herself, a minute and no longer.

In the end, she doesn’t even get that. A fireball strikes the boulder behind her, shattering it into pieces and sending her sprawling onto her belly. Another strikes the ground by her head, and she desperately claws her way to her feet, somehow managing to grab her sleeping bag, and takes off running again.

It seems the Gamemakers decided to have some fun with her, sending a hail of fireballs her way. She can just imagine their gleeful laughter back in the control room: _“Girl on Fire, indeed.”_

Another fireball whizzes past her head, striking a tree. She twists and dives, sliding across the ground when a fireball cuts in front of her, just missing her face. This time, she’s not fast enough getting back to her feet, and another fireball grazes her leg. She screams, the pain searing, and she rolls around to extinguish the flames on her pants. She can smell burnt flesh, but she doesn’t have time to examine the damage. Back on her feet, she limps as fast as she can, gritting her teeth against the deep, throbbing pain, desperate to keep moving, hopeful that if she can just get away from this section of the forest, the fireball attacks will stop.

Eventually, mercifully, the fireballs abate, and the thick clouds of smoke blinding her thin as the wall of fire slows its advance behind her. She doesn’t even realize she’s near a pond until her boots splash into the water. With a groan of pained relief, she wades in farther, hissing as the water touches the burn on her calf. It reawakens her nerve endings, making them feel like they’re on fire again, but she makes herself stay put, tears streaming down her face, streaking through the soot on her cheeks, until the pain ebbs into a dull throb. She scoops some water into her hand and splashes it across her face, scrubbing away the dirt and ashes, clearing her tight and bleary eyes. She scoops some in her mouth and spits it out, rinsing out the foul taste of vomit.

When she’s ready, she limps back onto land and takes a seat to examine her leg. The pants leg is scorched and burned away where the fire hit her. Beneath it, the skin is angry, red and blistered and bubbly, and she bites her tongue, feeling queasy all over again. Funny, she can skin and gut any animal, but this kind of stuff makes her faint.

Gingerly, she rolls her pants leg up to her knee, avoiding touching the injury. She has nothing in her bag to help with this, so all she can do is rip off the hem of her shirt and tie it around her calf. Any pressure on her wound is pure agony, and she nearly passes out. But once it’s done, she breathes through her teeth, the pain settling into a persistent pulse.

Now that she has time to rest, she takes the water bottle from her bag; she’s grateful she filled it up the night before. She drinks slowly, then fills her water bottle again and treats it. She eats some crackers to settle her stomach. Her sleeping bag has only sustained minimal damage in the fire, and she takes a moment to roll it up and shove it into her backpack. In the distance, now that the smoke has cleared, she can see she is deep in the woods. The wall of fire has stopped some distance away, as there are no burnt trees or scorched earth that she can see, only some small, stubborn flames that flicker on branches and the ground where the fireballs struck.

This spot isn’t too bad, at least. A source of water, trees for coverage. The animals might have been scared off for now, but she can find plants to eat in addition to what remains from her own stash. Eventually, the animals will be back; they’ll need water, too.

It could have been worse, she surmises. The Gamemakers don’t want to be the ones to kill the tributes, of course. It’s more interesting to watch them kill each other.

Which means, if they stopped their assault on her, then another tribute must be nearby.

Dany is only just coming to that realization when she hears them, the thunder of approaching footsteps that she knows without a doubt belong to humans this time. Many of them. She has only a brief head start to grab her backpack and clear out. She doesn’t try to run, knowing she won’t get far on her bad leg. Instead, she finds a tall tree some yards away and quickly begins to climb it, pulling herself up branch by branch. As they spot her, they cry out in triumph and charge her. Thankfully, by the time they reach the base of her tree, she’s already twenty feet in the air.

She looks down at them. Of course, it’s the Careers who have found her. Jon is with them still, but he avoids her glare. They look like they’ve been run through the gamut, too, clothes scorched and missing in places, bandages on angry welts. They have not been spared the Gamemakers’ flair for the dramatic.

The Careers glare at her, teeth bared in snarls. Despite her pounding heart, she manages a smile. “How’s it going down there?” she calls to them with more casual indifference than she feels.

Her friendliness takes them aback, but Ramsay smiles wolfishly up at her. “Not too bad. Why don’t you come down here and see for yourself?”

She pretends to consider it, surveying the area. “I don’t think so. The air is much fresher up here.” Then she smiles again. “Why don’t you join me?”

Her nonchalance annoys the rest of them. “I think I just might,” Joffrey calls up to her, puffing up his chest. He’s tall enough that when he jumps, he can grab onto the first branch. As he pulls himself up, Dany climbs higher. She’s not too worried about him reaching her. She’s small, so the thinner branches at the top can hold her weight; she can go higher than someone his size. He won’t get far.

As she suspected, she hears a branch crack and looks down just as it snaps under Joffrey’s weight, dropping him to the ground. Now he’s angry. “Stupid bitch,” he seethes as he stands. He tries to throw his sword at her, but it hits a branch and ricochets off, landing at his feet.

“Let me try,” says the blonde girl from the Westerlands, Val. She pulls the bow off her arm, and Dany watches with envy as she strings the first arrow, aims, fires. She’s a poor shot, though; the first arrow misses entirely, sailing through the air, and the second arrow lodges into the tree trunk. Dany wraps her legs around the branch she’s sitting on and leans down to rip it free. Then she waves it in the air.

“Thanks for this,” she gloats. Val huffs, and the Careers regroup, arguing with each other about how best to kill her.

Finally, Jon speaks. “She can’t go anywhere, not when we’ve got her treed. She’ll have to come down eventually. We can wait her out till then.”

He’s right, unfortunately, though he underestimates just how long she can stay up here. One time, in the wolfswood, she was stuck in a tree for an entire day, trapped by a wolf that had caught her scent until it finally got bored and left to hunt down easier prey. Her mother had been ready to go to the City Guard for help in finding her by the time Dany finally walked through their front door the next morning.

The Careers agree with Jon’s plan and decide to set up camp at her tree. A couple stay behind to keep an eye on her while the others gather firewood and water. When they return, they quickly start a fire and pass around food they must have stockpiled from the cornucopia. It doesn't escape her notice that Ygritte places her sleeping bag directly next to Jon's. Dany watches them, all her bravado from earlier gone. Her run has completely sapped her energy, her muscles heavy and achy; her calf still throbs, and now her stomach twists with hunger. She has no choice but to settle in for the night too, slipping into her sleeping bag and strapping herself to the branch. She puts the arrow in her backpack, in case she can use it later, then takes a few bites of bread and jerky and drinks some water.

Dusk is upon them. Suddenly, she hears some rustling in a neighboring tree. Her ears perk up, and she strains her eyes through the growing darkness, wondering if some predator has spotted her. She catches the gleam of the Careers’ fire in a pair of eyes and goes still. Slowly, she realizes it’s not an animal; it’s a person.

Missandei! She’s in the tree next to hers. Has she been there the whole time?

They stare at each other, uncertain. After a moment, Missandei lifts her hand and points to something over Dany’s head. Dany follows her finger. It’s hard to see, and it takes a moment for her to understand the strange object Missandei is pointing out. Her stomach drops.

Hanging from a branch just a few feet over her head is a wasp nest.

Fear seizes her, but thankfully she has the sense to stay still. Most wasps will leave you alone if you don’t bother them, but she has a sinking feeling these aren’t normal wasps. More than likely, they’re another one of the Gamemakers’ creations: killer wasps they call dragonwasps. They’re bigger than regular wasps, but they’re easily identified by their black and red stripes. They’re called dragonwasps because their stings feel like burns, their venom inflaming your skin and swelling to large lumps. Their venom is extremely dangerous, too; it has hallucinatory properties that can knock you out for days. Too many stings, and your nervous system will shut down entirely, death soon to follow.

During the Long Night, dragonwasps were created by the Crown as genetically engineered weapons to be used against the regions when they rebelled. After the war, the Crown destroyed all the nests in the regions closest to King’s Landing, but they didn’t bother with faraway areas like the North. Dany has encountered a few nests while hunting in the wolfswood with Daario, and they know enough to steer clear of them.

The buzzing coming from the nest is faint. Usually, they’re loud, but perhaps the smoke from the fire has subdued them for now.

A plan begins to formulate in her mind. She can’t stay in the tree forever; by morning the Careers will have surely come up with a plan of attack. The nest might be her best chance of escape.

Dany looks to Missandei, but the younger girl has faded back into the trees. The anthem starts then; it might be her best chance to set her plan in motion, while the Careers are distracted and the dragonwasps subdued. Making up her mind, Dany moves fast. Quickly, she climbs the tree to the branch where the nest hangs. She pulls her knife out of her belt and begins sawing at it as fast as she can, but she only manages to get a quarter of the way through the branch before the anthem finishes. There have been no new deaths, either. She halts her sawing, afraid the noise will attract the Careers’ attention and spoil her attack. Right now, all the Careers appear to be settling in for sleep. Quietly, she returns to her branch.

She finds a surprise waiting for her on her sleeping bag. A gift from a sponsor! It must have fallen during the anthem. Eagerly, she rips off the parachute attached to it and opens the container to reveal a pot of ointment inside. She gives it a cautious sniff; it smells medicinal in nature. For her burn, maybe? She tests it on her calf and bites back a groan of relief. The effect is immediate, soothing the persistent throbbing. She smears more ointment on it until it’s covered, then rewraps it.

“Thank you, Tyrion,” she whispers. Then she puts the ointment in her backpack and climbs back into her sleeping bag, though she won’t be sleeping tonight.

The hours pass by agonizingly slowly, but when she finally hears birdsong, she knows dawn is approaching. She makes herself eat and drink, then she packs up her stuff. Below her, the Careers are still asleep. Val, who was meant to keep watch, has fallen asleep as well, braced against the tree. Jon is asleep too, though his sleeping bag is one of the farthest positioned away from the tree. She feels a pang of guilt for what she’s about to do to him, but she shoves it aside angrily. There is no time for second-guessing, and he brought this retribution upon himself, teaming up with the Careers to hunt her down.

Dany looks for Missandei again. She doesn’t see her, so she whistles softly, hoping the girl will hear it. She saved her life by warning her about the dragonwasps, so it’s only fair Dany returns the favor. The leaves rustle, and she appears on the nearby tree again, looking at her in question. Dany points above her head at the nest, then mimics a sawing motion with her knife.

Missandei understands immediately, and with a nod, she’s off, jumping from tree to tree. Dany watches in amazement as the little girl eventually disappears into the distance, barely making a sound as she goes. She moves even better than Dany does. This must have been what she showed the Gamemakers in her private session.

Checking to make sure the Careers are still asleep, Dany climbs the tree to the nest once more. She holds her breath as she begins to saw again, going slowly so she won’t make too much noise. But soon, the slight vibration in the branch begins to awaken the dragonwasps—and she's certain that's what they are now, immediately recognizing their red and black stripes as a couple crawl out of the opening of the nest. With horror, she realizes they’re no longer subdued. Their buzzing grows louder, angrier, and she can see more crawling out of the opening. Panicked, she saws faster, less concerned about waking the Careers now, knowing she doesn’t have much time; she feels a sting on her hand, then another on her neck. The wasps have found her. Her hand moves faster, faster, then, desperate, she stops and pulls herself up by the branch above her and kicks, hard—once, twice, and finally the branch cracks and splinters, splitting free from the tree. The nest plummets to the ground and bursts open in the circle of sleeping bags, releasing a swarm of angry dragonwasps.

The Careers wake up with startled cries, then they begin to scream as the dragonwasps find their targets. Some manage to grab their things before they take off running. “Water! The lake!” someone shouts, and they take off.

Theon and Val aren’t so lucky, however; they get the worst of the swarm, screaming and swatting violently at the dragonwasps, but it only makes the creatures angrier and more determined. Quickly, Theon and Val are overwhelmed, and they collapse to the ground with agonized wails.

Almost immediately, the venom from her stings hits Dany. She feels lightheaded and woozy, but she has to move, now. Ripping the dragonwasps’ barbed stingers out of her skin, she scales back down the tree but loses her grip and crashes to the ground. She rolls onto her stomach, her vision swimming. Opening her eyes wide, she tries to blink them clear, but as she gets to her feet, the ground shifts dangerously under her. She stumbles into the tree, and she shakes her head to gather her bearings.

Luckily, most of the dragonwasps have taken off after the tributes who ran. The rest are preoccupied with Theon and Val, who moan and writhe on the ground with convulsions. Their bodies are riddled in stings, each lump already the size of a chicken’s egg. At the sight, Dany’s stomach turns, and she pushes off the tree to run. She heads in the direction of her pond, thinking the Careers are right to seek water. Eventually, she reaches it and stumbles into it, submerging herself completely in case any wasps are on her trail.

Only once she can no longer bear it does she pull herself out of the water, gasping for air as she collapses on the ground. The world spins, and she grits her teeth, trying to fight off the effects of the venom. But when she closes her eyes, all she can see is the image of Theon and Val, their bloated, swollen bodies already grotesquely disfigured, pus oozing from their stings. Their hands clutched uselessly around their weapons as if to fight off the dragonwasps. Val even had her bow in hand, for all the good that would do her—

The bow! Dany’s eyes pop open just as a cannon fires. Now is her only chance to get it, before the hovercrafts retrieve the bodies.

Dany pushes to her feet and heads back to the scene of the crime, swaying and zigzagging, crashing into trees and falling to her knees. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she finds her way back just as a second cannon fires. She’s so out of it, she nearly crawls right over Val’s corpse. The dragonwasps are all gone now, at least. Glancing down, Dany stifles a scream when she gets a look at Val’s face. Once beautiful, it’s no longer even recognizable as human.

Delirious, Dany forces her eyes away, feeling for Val’s hand. It’s twice the size it should be, her fingers swollen shut around the bow shaft. She tugs futilely, but even in death the girl won’t let go. Biting down on her lip, she pulls at Val’s fingers. When they won’t budge, she grabs a rock and smashes them until they break, then she pries them open. She manages to free the bow, falling backward with a final, desperate yank.

It’s then she hears the pounding of feet. The other Careers have returned.

Frantic, she roots around on the ground blindly until she finds it, the quiver of arrows. The footsteps are closer, louder, the ground quaking beneath her. Dany just manages to get an arrow strung, swinging around to shoot it, when someone crashes through the trees, a sword raised high.

Shock registers on Jon’s face when he sees her on the ground, and the string slips from her fingers, the arrow dropping uselessly to the ground. “What are you still doing here?” he hisses at her, lowering his sword. Blue rose vines slither out of his ears and mouth, and she stares uncomprehendingly at him.

Someone shouts in the distance, another pair of footsteps thundering toward them. Jon looks in the direction of the shout then whips his head back to her. “Are you crazy?” he yells at her, then he lunges for her, pulling her to her feet. “Get up! Go! Go! Run! _Now_!”

He shoves her away from him, and she stumbles, still clutching her bow and quiver. “Run!” he screams at her again. Behind him, Joffrey slashes through the brush with his sword. Jon turns to face him, raising his own sword in defense. Finally, Dany does what he says, spinning away from him to run. She trips, stumbles, crashing through the brush, clambering back to her feet. The metallic clash of steel rings behind her. Grunts of pain, cries of rage. She keeps running, past the pond, deep into the woods.

The world warps and bends around her. Leaves on the trees turn alarming shades, swelling and bursting into flames. One explodes directly in her path, too close to dodge, and she screams as she collides with it, afraid she’s heading back into the wall of fire again. Instead, it only fizzles into a plume of smoke. A bird flies by and balloons, growing larger and larger until it morphs into a golden, three-headed dragon.

With a startled shriek, Dany trips and falls into a pit so deep, it seems bottomless. The golden dragon follows her down into the endless abyss. It opens all three sets of jaws and roars in her face, but just before it can snap its teeth around her, it explodes into a shower of sparkling ash. She thinks she screams, but the hot ash fills her mouth, choking her, and the cloud of cinders then swallows her whole.

Before she passes out, she has one last thought: _Jon Snow just saved my life._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the carnage and violence of the games, Dany forms an unlikely friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you aliciutza for beta'ing and making the moodboard! As you can see from looking at it...you probably know what to expect this chapter, and for that, I'm terribly sorry. :x

* * *

Dany sinks into a nightmare that never seems to end, subjected to hallucinations and aberrations that are so vivid, so terrifying, she’s convinced they’re real: the starved corpses of her mother and Rhaenys, carelessly tossed into the makeshift graveyard outside Wintertown and ripped apart by scavengers; Rhaegar, trapped in the coal mine just as it explodes; Dany, buried alive with him, forced to watch as his skin melts and drips off his skeleton.

And through it all, the same three-headed golden dragon hunting her as she slowly suffocates to death.

When she finally does wake, she doesn’t move, still braced for another merciless attack of the dragonwasp venom. Hours pass before she’s finally sure the venom has worked its way out of her system and there’s no danger of any more hallucinations, but even then she’s slow to stir. Groggily, she pushes herself up into a sitting position, her muscles screaming in protest. It’s hard to tell if the stiffness in her limbs is from disuse or the venom, and she has no way to know how long she’s been out. She takes stock of her surroundings; the deep pit she fell into is in truth only a shallow hole, excavated by a tree that tipped over at some point, its roots ripped from the ground. She sees the ugly lump on her hand, left behind by the dragonwasp’s sting; she touches her neck and winces when she grazes another similarly sized welt. It’s tender and hot to the touch.

Luckily, she still has her backpack with her. Even better, she has a bow. She managed to hold onto it and her quiver in her chaotic dash through the woods. She counts the number of arrows: a full dozen, plus the one in her bag. She’ll just have to be judicious in how she uses them. Dany tests a couple on the uprooted tree before reaching over to yank the arrows free, returning them to her sheath. The bow isn’t quite as stiff as the one from training, at least.

Armed with a substantial weapon, for the first time, Dany feels like an actual contender in these games. She will no longer be mere helpless prey, simply running from the other tributes to survive. She won’t have to be constantly on the defensive. Now, she has the ability to fight back.

Now, she can even strike first.

Dany rummages through her backpack and adds the extra arrow to her quiver. She sips on some water and eats the pack of crackers. It’s the last of her provisions, but she’s no longer worried; she can hunt for her food now. It’s a good thing, too; she can feel her ribs through her shirt. Whatever extra weight she might have put on during training from consuming all that extravagant food in King’s Landing is gone now. She tries the ointment Tyrion sent her on her stings, but it doesn’t seem to do anything. She’ll just have to wait for them to subside on their own.

She wonders how the other tributes fared after the dragonwasp attack. She knows Theon and Val are dead, but the others, Joffrey, Ygritte and Ramsay, could still be alive.

And Jon. If Joffrey didn’t finish him off, that is. She thinks back to the last moment she saw him in the woods, just before Joffrey crashed through the trees. Was that real or just a hallucination? Now she’s not so sure. The memory is distant, foggy; it felt real in a way the other dreams didn’t, but it sounds just as fantastical. Why would he save her? He was helping the Careers hunt her down. Wasn’t he? _Just what kind of game are you playing, Jon?_

She can’t puzzle it out, and at the moment, it’s too taxing to try, so instead she focuses on what she can handle. First, she needs to get up. She’s certain some of the Careers are still alive, and there’s no telling how long the venom put them out of commission. They could be hunting for her now.

Once she’s on her feet, swaying unsteadily, she heads west, opposite of the direction she came, which isn’t hard to discern: under the influence of the dragonwasp venom, she left a path of destruction in her wake as she tried to get away from the others. She walks slowly, keeping her eyes open for any game. When she finally spots a rabbit, she draws an arrow and notches it. Easily, she spears the rabbit in the head. It’s not her usual clean shot through the eye, but she’s lacking her usual limberness at the moment. With a piece of rope from her bag, she strings the carcass to her belt and keeps walking.

After a while, she comes across a rather deep stream, and she takes the opportunity to strip out of her filthy clothes down to her underwear and wade into the water. Thanks to her exhaustion and the false sense of privacy the woods afford her, she’s no longer very concerned about what the audience sees of her body. She rinses off the grime and dirt from days spent trekking through the wilderness then sits on the bank of the stream to dry, unbraiding and rebraiding her wet hair.

After she redresses, she starts a fire and begins skinning and cleaning the rabbit carcass. She spears it on a spit and puts it over the fire when she hears a faint sound.

In a second, Dany has her bow drawn, arrow aimed in the direction of the sound, but she sees nothing. She squints, eyes darting back and forth, looking for the danger. Then she spots it: the tip of a boot peeking out from behind a tree. With a small smile to herself, she relaxes. Only one person could be that quiet in sneaking up on her.

“It’s OK. You can come out,” she calls as she lowers her bow. When she’s greeted with silence, she adds, “Would you like to share my rabbit with me?”

Finally, Missandei peers around the tree. “Really?” she asks with such unbridled hope, Dany can’t help but grin. She sits back down by the fire, turning the spit.

“Of course,” she says as Missandei approaches her cautiously. “Consider it my thanks for saving my life back there.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Missandei says doubtfully, sitting down opposite Dany.

“You didn’t have to warn me about the dragonwasp nest, but you did. And I was able to use it to escape. Without that diversion, the Careers would have killed me for sure.” Dany eyes her; the girl was already small to begin with, but she looks like she hasn’t eaten a proper meal since training. All things considered, she doesn’t look much worse for wear, just a few scratches here and there, but hardly surprising, if she’s spent most of her time in the trees.

“You know, we could be allies, too,” Dany says suddenly. Missandei is surprised by this.

“You want me for an ally?”

“Why not? The Careers aren’t the only ones who can team up. You’ve lasted this long, so you’re obviously smart and resourceful.” Dany smiles. “I could use your help. We could help each other.”

Missandei returns her smile, albeit shyly. “OK. You’ve got a deal.” They shake on it. Of course, neither mentions that an alliance between them can only be temporary, but Dany tells herself that’s a problem for later.

Releasing her hand, Missandei gestures to it. “I can fix your stings, if you want.”

Dany glances down at her hand then back to her. “Really? How?”

The little girl pulls a handful of leaves out of her jacket pocket, and Dany watches in confusion as she balls them up in her mouth and chews. Then she spits out a slimy wad into her hand and holds it out. Skeptical, Dany lifts her hand to her, and Missandei flattens it against the lump on the back of her hand, patting it securely. The relief is instantaneous, like the leaves are leaching the venom and pain right out of her.

Dany groans loudly, and Missandei giggles. “Oh, gods. How did you learn how to do that?”

“I work in the orchards back home.”

She thinks. “Orchards. The Reach, right?”

Missandei nods. “Ashford,” she specifies.

Dany laughs. “Of course. That’s why you move around in the trees like you’re flying!”

The younger girl looks pleased by her assessment. “I have to climb the trees to pick the apples. I’m small, so they make me climb the tallest trees. There are a lot of dragonwasp nests around the orchards, so we carry these leaves with us just in case we run into any. I found trees bearing the leaves all around the woods.”

“Do the other sting,” Dany begs, pointing to her neck, and Missandei obliges. Dany offers her some of her ointment for a couple burns on her arms, then once the rabbit is done cooking, they split it. It’s not a lot of meat, but when she sees how ravenously Missandei eats her half, Dany offers her the rest of hers, assuring the girl she can easily get more, now that she has a bow.

After they finish their meal, they take inventory to see what provisions they have between them. Missandei doesn’t have much on her; in her backpack, she has some edible berries, a handcrafted slingshot and an extra pair of socks she says she wears on her hands when it gets cold at night.

The thought makes Dany sad. “You can share my sleeping bag with me tonight, if you want,” she says, and the girl’s face brightens.

When it’s time to leave, Dany puts out the fire, kicking dirt over it so the Careers won’t be able to track them. As they walk, they decide to stick close to the stream. Dany notices Missandei sneaking curious looks at her pin. “What is that?” she finally asks, pointing to it.

Dany touches it, trying to think of how best to explain it without implicating Mr. Stark. After Jon’s reaction during training, she’s not sure how the baker’s wife will react to the news of him visiting Dany at the Justice Building. “It’s an old family heirloom. A three-headed dragon.”

“It’s pretty.”

“Thank you.” Dany smiles distantly. “It belonged to my brother.”

The skin pinches between Missandei’s eyes. “You said...he died, right?”

Swallowing, Dany nods. “It was a mine explosion. Where I’m from, when you turn 18, you’re expected to work in the mines. It’s a risk we all understand, but...it was still hard.”

“I’m sorry. I know what it’s like. My brother…” Missandei hesitates, and Dany waits patiently for her to find the words. “Like me, he worked in the orchards. He was older, but...his mind just didn’t work like ours. He didn’t really understand the job, what he was supposed to be doing every day. He got in trouble a lot. The guards found him slacking off one day, and...when he refused to get back to work...they—they shot him. Right in front of everyone in the orchards. It was meant as a warning to the rest of us: ‘This is what happens if you don’t do what we tell you.’”

Stunned, Dany stops walking. “Oh, gods. Missandei…” She places a hand on the girl’s shoulder, a paltry gesture of comfort. Missandei looks up at her with wet eyes, and on impulse Dany hugs her. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry about your brother, too.” She tightens her arms around Dany’s waist, and Dany’s throat spasms as she fights back tears of her own. After a moment, she clears her throat, and they pull apart to continue on their trek.

When night comes, they find a tree to make camp in. They’ve just wiggled into the sleeping bag together when the anthem starts. Dany uses the distraction to ask Missandei what she’s been dying to know but until now was too afraid to ask, lest the audience overhear.

“Missandei, how long was I out for? Do you know?” she whispers, covering her mouth with her hand just in case. Missandei does the same.

“Two days. There’s ten of us left.”

She braces herself for the answer when she asks, “Jon? Is he among those left, do you know?”

Missandei nods, and Dany feels her body sag with relief. She debates telling the other girl any more, but truthfully it’s nice to have someone to talk about it with. It’s nice to have someone to talk with, period. “Something weird happened. I don’t know. I think...I think Jon saved my life back there, after the dragonwasp attack, but I don’t get it. He was with the Careers.”

“He’s not with them now,” Missandei explains. “I’ve spied on their camp by the lake. Three of them made it back there. I haven’t seen him, not since the attack, but he hasn’t been in the death count either. Maybe he did save you then made a run for it.”

Dany chews on her lip. It’s as she feared: once again, Jon has saved her life. First with the bread, now this. “I guess,” she says unhappily, not sure how to feel. He saved her, even after she nearly killed him with the dragonwasps. She can never seem to set things right between them. “I don’t know why he would do that.”

“Because he loves you,” Missandei answers simply, and Dany pulls back slightly, then shakes her head.

“No. That was just an act. Part of his interview strategy, pretending to be in love with me.”

Missandei looks disappointed. “Oh. I thought that was real.”

Dany just shakes her head again, but the anthem ends then, and there are no new deaths to report. “We should try to get some sleep,” she says instead. They lie down on the forked branch, and Missandei curls against her. It reminds Dany of how Rhaenys used to snuggle with her at home, and her heart aches at the memory. She resists the urge to stroke the girl’s hair, just like she would with Rhaenys. It’s reckless and short-sighted, she knows, getting attached to this girl. But she’s always had a soft spot for those in need of protection.

After a moment, Dany speaks. “You said you spied on the Careers. What’s their camp like?”

Missandei sounds wistful when she answers. “Oh, they’ve got everything. Stockpiles of food and weapons. Now, it’s just Joffrey, Ygritte, Ramsay and Jojen. The boy from the Riverlands.”

“Really?” That surprises Dany. “Strange. He’s not a Career. Why would they keep him alive?”

“I’m not sure. They make him stay behind with the camp to guard it every time they leave, though.”

Interesting. From what she can remember of the boy, he’s nothing terribly threatening or imposing. How could he be expected to guard the supplies all on his own? “Is he good with a weapon?”

“I don’t think so,” Missandei replies. “He carries a spear, but I’ve never seen him use it.”

“Maybe he can hunt,” Dany guesses.

“He doesn’t need to. They have all the food they could want.”

Quietly, Dany mulls this over, an idea starting to take shape. “What if they didn’t?”

Missandei shifts around in the sleeping bag to face her. “What do you mean?”

“What if they didn’t have all that food? All those supplies? How long do you think they would last then?”

“I don’t know because they _do_ have all those supplies,” Missandei argues, her voice turning bitter.

For the first time, Dany thinks she might actually have a plan. One that doesn’t involve her running or defending herself. One that actually puts her on the attack. “You’re right. They do.” She smiles to herself, though Missandei can’t see her face in the dark. “And I think it’s time we change that.”

* * *

The next morning when they awake, they begin devising a plan. “We’re going to destroy their food supply,” Dany declares, but Missandei isn’t yet convinced.

“How?”

Dany wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know. That’s why I need you to help me. Tell me everything you can about their camp. We’ll go from there.” It’s not a foolproof plan; really, it’s only the bare bones of a plan, but she needs to know what she’s working with.

Missandei tells her that the Careers have set up their camp by the lake, the supply stash about thirty yards away from the water’s edge. Jojen acts as guard, but the food is otherwise left out in the open. Something strikes Dany as odd about the whole setup, but she can’t figure out why. Hopefully once she gets her eyes on it herself, it will make sense.

“You said there’s ten of us left. You, me, Jon. The Careers: Joffrey, Ygritte, Ramsay. Plus Jojen. That’s seven. Who’s left?”

“The boy from my district, Grey.”

“Do you know where he is?” Dany asks warily.

Missandei shrugs. “There’s a field on the other side of the arena. I think that’s where he went.”

Dany remembers seeing what looked like a dropoff behind the cornucopia from where she stood at the start of the games. If it’s actually a field, then it makes sense. As a tribute from the Reach, Grey might be most comfortable there, just like Missandei is suited for the trees.

Missandei tells her she hasn’t seen Grey since the start of the games. Whatever he’s doing, he’s doing alright for himself. Dany decides he likely won’t be a problem when it comes to their plan. “Who else is left?”

Missandei thinks it over. “The girl from the Riverlands. Margaery. And Gendry. From the Stormlands.”

“Have you seen either of them?”

“Not lately. Not sure where they’re hiding out.”

If they’re hiding, then that means they’re not hunting, at least. “Let’s hope they don’t bother us, then,” Dany says, determined.

They get up to get ready, first taking the time to eat breakfast. Missandei finds some eggs in a bird’s nest, then she scavenges for roots and berries while Dany hunts. She takes down a squirrel and a wild turkey. Missandei starts a fire while Dany plucks and cleans the turkey, then works on the squirrel while the turkey cooks.

They’re packing up the leftovers of their breakfast when they hear the cannon. They look at each other, wide-eyed, even as Dany reaches for her bow. But they hear nothing more, not even the hovercraft that would have to come to collect the dead tribute; wherever the tribute died, it isn’t nearby.

“Who do you think that was?” Missandei asks in a nervous whisper.

“I don’t know,” Dany says grimly, her thoughts turning to Jon, but she discards the possibility immediately. It’s not him. It can’t be. “I guess it’s probably too much to hope it was one of the Careers, though.”

By lunch, she and Missandei have finalized their plan and collected the wood for the three campfires Missandei will set in order to draw the Careers away from their camp; hopefully, the chase she will lead them on will keep them occupied long enough for Dany to figure out how to destroy their supplies. If things go according to plan, the two of them will meet back up by dinner, at the place where they first made their alliance together.

Missandei teaches her a bird call they use back home to signal when it’s quitting time, a simple four-note song that the birds pick up and spread through the orchard. They’ll use it in the event the other gets stuck somewhere and can't get back to the meeting place by the expected time.

“I’ll see you at dinner time, right?” Dany says. Missandei leans forward to hug her.

“Be careful,” she tells her. Tears threaten to fall again, so Dany blinks them away, forcing a smile.

“You, too. Take my sleeping bag, in case anything goes wrong and we have to sleep apart for the night.” She takes it out of her bag and hands it to the girl.

“Won’t you get cold?”

“Maybe I can steal an extra one from the Careers,” she says with a conspiratorial wink, and Missandei dutifully puts the sleeping bag in her own backpack. With that, they go their separate ways. Missandei follows the stream one direction and Dany the other, back toward their place where they made their alliance. Once she finds the hidden remains of their old campfire, she continues on, bow at the ready, following her path of destruction until she returns to the scene of the dragonwasp attack. She must have been moving slowly in her retreat, high on the dragonwasp venom, because it doesn’t take long to find it. Thankfully, the dead tributes are long gone; still, she shudders at the memory and quickly hurries on.

Missandei did a decent job painting her a mental map of a path to the lake, the one she herself used to spy on the Careers. Dany easily spots the markers she was told to look for: the fallen ash tree, a patch of blackberries. When she comes across an abandoned bird nest that fell out of a tree, she knows she’s close to the lake. The field where the games began. Shoring up her courage, Dany tightens her grip on the bow, the arrow fletching pinched between her fingers, and proceeds cautiously. Soon she comes to the copse Missandei described for her, a thick bushy foliage at the edge of the woods, just on the perimeter of the clearing by the lake. She shimmies beneath the undergrowth and sees she has a cleverly concealed spot from which to spy on the Careers’ camp.

There are four tributes at the camp. Joffrey, Ygritte, Ramsay and another boy that can only be Jojen, the tribute from the Riverlands. He is tall but reedy, thin. Even Ygritte looks more threatening than him. From this distance, Dany can see the dragonwasp stings that cover their bodies; the lumps still look large and angry, while her own have already reduced in size. Whatever medicine they have in their supplies clearly has no effect on the stings. Dany sends up another silent thanks to her resourceful ally.

The cornucopia has been picked clean, sitting empty in the middle of the clearing, and all its supplies are piled into a tall pyramid, a curious distance away from the camp itself. Dany can see crates and containers, burlap sacks full of things like fruits and vegetables. The setup is puzzling. The tributes themselves are positioned a substantial distance away from the pyramid, their campfire and sleeping bags arranged closer to the lake. The pyramid would be easier to access, easier to guard, if it were closer to them, especially at night. Anyone could sneak into the pyramid of supplies and steal provisions while the Careers sleep or while they are away hunting.

It must be booby-trapped, she decides, to guard against that very real threat. But how? Poisoned darts tripped by a wire, perhaps? She squints. She can’t see any sort of snare surrounding the pyramid, but she might just be too far away to see.

She’s still mulling over the possibilities when Ramsay lets out a shout. He points toward the woods, up over the treetops. Dany can’t see what it is, but she guesses he must have finally spotted the smoke from the first fire Missandei has set. Immediately, the Careers begin to arm themselves.

An argument soon breaks out among them about taking Jojen along. They’re talking loudly enough that their voices carry across the field to her. “He should stay to guard the supplies,” Ygritte argues, but Joffrey is adamant.

“His job here is done. The supplies will be fine. He’s more helpful to us in the woods.”

“What about Lover Boy?” Ramsay demands. “What if he comes back? He knows about the supplies.”

Joffrey snarls, clearly not used to being challenged. “I told you, that traitorous fucker is as good as dead! I got him good. He’ll bleed out soon, if he hasn’t already. He’s no threat to us.”

Dany’s breath catches, stomach sinking. So Jon _did_ betray the Careers, and he’s paying for it now. He’s somewhere out there in the woods, alone and badly injured. It seems more and more likely that the cannon this morning was for him.

She can’t think about that now because the Careers are on the hunt, running for the woods, not far from her copse. She keeps deathly still, holding her breath, her fear crystallizing into sharp spikes in her chest. “When we find that bitch, she’s mine,” Joffrey growls as they pass within mere yards of her, but she’s hidden enough that they don’t see her. She doesn’t have to wonder who he means by “that bitch.”

She lets out her breath once they’re gone, leaving the supplies unguarded. But not completely vulnerable, as their argument confirmed her suspicions.

Dany stays hidden in the woods, making sure enough time passes so she knows the Careers are well away from the area. She spends that time trying to puzzle out the booby trap that safeguards the pyramid. Maybe she doesn’t need to figure it out; with the bow and arrow, she could do some damage without getting close and inadvertently tripping any trap.

A burning arrow, perhaps. With the box of matches in her backpack, she could wrap a piece of her shirt around the arrow tip and light it on fire, before sending it into the supplies. But what if it doesn’t catch? Without an accelerant, it would burn out before doing any real damage.

Just as she debates leaving her hiding spot to get closer and investigate, a movement catches her eye. To her right, on the other side of the woods, someone emerges from the treeline. A girl. It takes her a moment to place the tribute and her coppery hair—Margaery.

She creeps onto the field, her head swiveling back and forth to survey the area. Once she’s sure she’s in the clear, she darts for the pyramid. She stops some feet away, and Dany watches her as she studies the ground. Then, with small, careful hops, Margaery approaches the pyramid, jumping from foot to foot, expertly landing on the balls of her feet. At one point, she overshoots her landing, arms spinning through the air to catch her balance, but she loses the fight and pitches forward. Just as her hands hit the ground, she lets out a shriek and goes still. Dany watches, perplexed by Margaery’s actions. Nothing happens. After a moment, Margaery stands and continues on her zigzagging path until she reaches the supplies.

She fills a small pack, only takes a few items, things that won’t be noticed or missed; a couple tomatoes, a pack of crackers, a handful of nuts. Dany admires her craftiness; the girl is sly, probably surviving this long off the Careers’ supplies without them even noticing. After a few minutes, Margaery turns and leaves, following the same path she took by repeating her little dance of careful hopping steps. Only when she’s beyond the perimeter of the pyramid does she fall back into a normal stride, running for the cover of the woods and disappearing as if she were never there.

Margaery’s deliberate footwork further cements Dany’s suspicions of a booby trap, but what exactly? What could have so many trigger points? What could have her scared enough to scream and potentially alert the Careers to her whereabouts when she fell like that? Like the ground might explode under her very feet?

It hits Dany then. “It’s mined,” she whispers in awe. But how? Did the Gamemakers put a bunch of explosives in the cornucopia? No, that type of weapon is too much of an advantage for any tribute. The games would be over much too soon for the audience’s liking.

Certain Margaery provides no immediate threat, Dany leaves her hiding spot behind. The other girl’s path showed the booby trap extended about ten yards out from the pyramid in either direction, so Dany approaches carefully. She stops near one of the metal plates in the ground, where a tribute was lifted into the arena on the first day of the games. The dirt around it looks freshly disturbed, like someone dug it up then patted it back down into place.

The landmines. Dany shakes her head in awe. Of course. Once the mines were deactivated at the start of the games, the Careers must have dug them up and replanted them around the pyramid. That must be Jojen’s doing, why he was considered useful to them; he must have figured out a way to reactivate the mines. No wonder the Careers kept him around. Dany is pretty sure no one’s ever thought to do that before, in all the history of the games; if they had, surely the Gamemakers would have devised a way to prevent it from happening again. The Crown doesn’t like being made into a fool, not in a game of its own making.

Now that she’s figured out the trap, Dany struggles to figure out a way to use it to her advantage to destroy the supplies. She could throw some rocks, maybe, but she would never be able to set them all off that way; she would be throwing blindly, a safe distance away, and the explosions would certainly bring the Careers back before she could finish off the supplies.

She’s running out of time; a glance back at the woods reveals that Missandei has set the second fire already. Dany can see the smoke above the treeline. The Careers will soon figure out they’ve been tricked when they keep finding no one at these fires; once they do, they’ll quickly return to their camp.

 _Think!_ she tells herself. She has a bow and arrow; there has to be something she can do with it. Her eyes sweep over the ground and the supplies before finally landing on the sack of apples on a crate near the top of the pyramid. An idea strikes her then: Perhaps, If she can create a cascade of apples from the pyramid onto the ground, it might just trigger enough of the landmines to destroy the supplies. But she knows she can’t just drop the bag itself; that might only trigger one or two mines. She’ll need to free all the apples.

With a plan of attack now in place, Dany moves into range of the pyramid as she draws an arrow. Sight trained on the sack of apples, she nocks her bow and aims. When she releases it, the arrow pierces the side of the bag, near the top, creating a split. She fires another arrow, tearing the split open wider, the apples now threatening to burst out. Aiming another arrow, she pauses and takes a deep breath, then releases. This one catches the flap of burlap and rips it straight off the bag.

As if in slow motion, Dany watches as the apples spill from the bag, bouncing down the side of the pyramid to the ground. They hit, one by one, and like a chain reaction, the mines explode in quick succession. _Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!_

She’s thrown backward with the first explosion, landing hard on her back. The force of her fall knocks the wind out of her, and she struggles to breathe as another wave of mines explodes. _Boom! Boom! **Boom!** _Debris and dirt fly high into the air, raining down around her. With a gasp, finally, her lungs contract and expand, and she rolls onto her stomach to shield her head. The ground shakes under her, and a high-pitched whine rings in her ears. Several seconds pass before the explosions finally stop, and the vibrations of the earth underneath her cease, as does the shower of debris, gradually. The ringing in her ears lingers, and after a long moment, she shakes the dirt off her and tries to sit up. Her head spins, the ground seeming to shift beneath her, and she clings to it, as if holding onto it will make it stop. She blinks through the cloud of dirt and smoke, and when it finally clears, she can see the wreckage left behind by the explosions.

It’s gone, the pyramid, the supplies. It’s all just a pile of ruin now.

Dany knows she has to run; there’s no telling how close the Careers were when the explosions went off, and she wants to be long gone by the time they return. But when she stands, the ground swoops under her, and she falls to her knees. She squeezes her eyes shut and grabs her head. Everything sounds muffled, dulled by the ringing in her ears. The explosions must have thrown off her equilibrium.

Somehow, she grabs her bow and manages to half-crawl, half-drag herself back to her hiding spot. A couple stray mines go off behind her, knocking her off balance, but she manages to slip into the undergrowth at the edge of the woods just before the Careers burst into the clearing. They survey the damage in horror, and Joffrey lets out an ear-piercing howl of pure, unadulterated rage.

Dany is too terrified to find any satisfaction in having thwarted him just yet; she’s too close for comfort, unable to slip away without alerting them to her whereabouts.

She watches as Jojen tests for other mines, throwing stones into the debris until he gives them the clear. They move in closer, sifting through the wreckage, but it doesn’t take them long to realize what Dany already knows: There’s nothing left.

They begin yelling at each other, though the ringing in her ears makes it hard to hear. But she knows whatever they’re saying, it’s not good for Jojen. He seems to realize this, too, as he turns to run, but Joffrey is faster than him. He grabs him in a chokehold and gives a jerk, snapping the boy’s head to the side. Dany covers her mouth, stifling her cry of surprise as he tosses the limp body aside like it’s nothing.

A cannon goes off. Just like that, Jojen is dead.

The Careers keep arguing; Joffrey wants to return to the woods to hunt down the person responsible for the explosion—because by now it’s obvious to them this was no accident—but Ygritte and Ramsay convince him to wait till the death recap, convinced that whoever did it likely died in the explosion, too.

They clear the area so the hovercraft can retrieve the body, then they wait at their campsite, sharpening their weapons. Twilight isn’t far off, then once the sky turns black, the Crown seal appears in the sky, and the anthem plays. They show Jojen’s picture, then Gendry’s—so the cannon from this morning was for him, not Jon. He’s still alive, after all. Dany is too stiff with fear to feel much relief at the moment.

Now that the Careers know the bomber survived, they ready themselves for the hunt. Armed with weapons and flashlights, they head back into the woods to find their prey.

Long after they’re gone, Dany lies in the undergrowth, motionless. The ringing in her ears has faded, and the dizziness has subsided, but now it’s too dark to blindly trek through the woods to her rendezvous point with Missandei, not with the Careers out there. Tentatively, she tries the four-note whistle Missandei taught her, but there are no birds left awake to carry it at this time of night. A chill quickly sets in, and Dany digs a shallow hole to curl up in for some warmth. She unfolds the plastic sheet from her backpack over herself to act as a windbreaker, then covers it in dead leaves and twigs to help conceal herself. The added layers do little to alleviate the cold, however; she will just have to grit her teeth and bear it.

She hopes Missandei is somewhere safe, now that the Careers are on their way; will they follow the smoke trail again? Have they put two and two together, that there are tributes working together against them? They must realize that someone will have set the diversionary fires while another blew up the supplies. Missandei’s smart, at least; she can stay hidden in the trees, far out of reach. She made it this long. And it’s not likely the Careers think she’s the culprit; they probably forgot about her entirely. 

First thing in the morning, Dany will head for their rendezvous point. Hopefully, Missandei will be there already, waiting.

* * *

Gnawing hunger pains wake her just before dawn. Slowly sitting up, she determines that her hearing and equilibrium seem to have been restored. Gratefully, she eats a meal from her backpack and drinks some water. She has no idea where the Careers are, but they haven’t returned yet. Leaving her hiding spot behind, she decides to go back the way she came by following the stream closely. She keeps her bow at the ready as she steps soundlessly through the woods. Along the banks of the stream, she spots dried bootprints in the mud; the Careers have been here at some point. She stops to take off her shoes and socks, putting them in her backpack so she can walk through the shallow stream, hiding her own trail in case they double back.

Eventually, Dany reaches their agreed-upon meeting point, but Missandei is nowhere to be found. There’s no sign of her either, no old campfire or disturbed ground. After setting the fires, she never made it back.

Growing worried, Dany decides to wait, give her some time to show. Maybe she ran into trouble too and is just waiting for a chance to get away. Dany’s heard no cannon, at least, so she knows Missandei has to be still alive.

While she waits, she puts her boots back on to hunt, taking down another wild turkey as well as a rabbit. She cleans the game and cooks them over a fire, eating half and saving the rest for Missandei. She keeps an eye out for the Careers while she eats, in case they spot her fire, but no one comes.

When her friend doesn’t show by late afternoon, Dany knows she will have to go looking for her. She doesn’t remember seeing the third fire Missandei was supposed to set, so she decides to look there first. If she got held up, it’s probably between there and where she set the second fire.

It takes her an hour or so to reach the spot for the third fire. It looks as though Missandei was there at some point, at least; wood has been stacked but has not been lit yet. Dany listens to the chirps of birds, but they do not appear to be singing Missandei’s song. Wherever she is, she’s not here.

Dany decides to follow her trail back to the spot where the second fire was set; as she walks, she periodically whistles Missandei’s song, hoping her friend will hear it and know it’s safe to come out.

At some point, she hears an answer: the four familiar notes. A grin breaks out across her face. Relieved, she responds in kind, heading in the direction of the song.

Just then, a child’s scream rends the air, shattering her relief and sending the nearby birds scattering through the trees. Immediately, Dany is running, her bow and arrow up as she crashes through the trees. Somewhere close by, Missandei cries out for her, “Daenerys! Help! Help!”

“Missandei!” she yells, hoping her friend—and her friend’s attackers—will hear her and know that she’s coming. “I’m here! I’m here!”

When she breaks through a clearing, she finds Missandei on the ground, helplessly entangled in a net. She sees Dany and reaches a hand toward her—just as a spear pierces her body.

“No!” Dany screams, instinctively releasing her arrow. It finds its target—burrowing into Ramsay’s neck before he even has time to withdraw the spear. Wide-eyed and gurgling on his blood, he staggers before dropping to the ground. Dany spins around in a circle, another arrow drawn as she frantically searches for the others.

“Where are they? Where are they?” she demands, heart pounding in her ears too loud to hear Missandei’s weak response. No other tribute attacks, however; the woods around them are eerily still.

A cannon goes off, and Dany whirls around, fearing it’s for Missandei. But the young girl’s eyes are still open, blinking slowly up at her. Horrified, Dany drops to her knees beside her, shoving Ramsay’s lifeless body away. The spear is lodged too deeply into Missandei’s stomach to remove it, and Dany knows there’s nothing she can do. Hands shaking, she takes her knife from her belt and cuts the net away to free her friend, but that’s all she can offer.

“Oh, Missandei,” she croaks helplessly, staring at the girl’s ashen face. Missandei reaches for her hand, and Dany takes it, squeezing tightly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—I should have been here sooner. I should have…” Tears spring to her eyes, but Missandei gives a shake of her head.

“Did you destroy their food?” she asks faintly.

“Yes. Every last bit,” Dany says, her voice thick. “I blew it sky high.”

“Good.” Missandei takes a shuddering breath, coughs. Blood trickles from her mouth. “You...you have to win.”

Dany swallows a few times. In her mind, she can hear the echoes of Rhaenys’ pleas. “I will. I’ll win for you. I promise.”

Missandei’s lip trembles, and her eyelashes become spiky with growing wetness. “I don’t want to die,” she whimpers, her voice small. Dany bites her lip hard, to no avail. The tears spill down her cheeks.

She shuffles as close as she can, gently placing the girl’s head on her lap. “I know,” she chokes out and wipes the blood from Missandei’s chin, then strokes her hair back from her face. “I wanted to protect you, but...” She can’t finish the rest. It had been a foolish notion. You can’t protect anyone in the games.

“Don’t go.” Missandei’s voice is fading.

“I won’t,” she swears. “I won’t leave you.”

“Can you s-sing me a song?” Dany has to lean in close to hear her, and she hesitates, searching for a melody. All that comes to her is a lullaby she used to sing for Rhaenys, when she had trouble sleeping. She learned it from Rhaegar, who would sing it to Dany when she was younger, then later, to his daughter.

Her throat is too tight with tears, and it takes a few attempts for her to find her voice, to get the lyrics out. As she sings, Missandei’s eyes flutter shut. Her breaths sound wet now, and her chest barely moves. Until, gradually, it moves no longer. The words of the lullaby stick in Dany’s throat, and her voice fades into a soft hum, but she doesn’t stop humming until she hears the cannon. She chokes on a sob, tears falling onto Missandei’s face, and she keeps stroking her hair. She knows she needs to move away so they can collect the body, but she doesn’t want to let go.

Eventually, she knows it’s time. Dany presses a tender kiss to her friend’s temple and lays her head on the ground. Gingerly, she cuts the backpack from Missandei’s shoulders, the one with the sleeping bag, and slides it out from underneath her. Then she stands and retrieves her arrow from Ramsay’s neck. She takes his backpack as well, shoving it inside her own. She leaves the spear in Missandei's stomach—better for it to leave the arena with her.

Dany stares down at her dead friend. It’s not fair. Missandei didn’t deserve this. She was only twelve, same age as Rhaenys. Dany wants to hate Ramsay for killing her, but she can’t; he’s dead now, too, so what does it matter? Hating him is useless because she knows that’s what the Gamemakers want. Ultimately, they’re the ones to blame. It’s the Gamemakers she hates, for doing this to them, forcing them to kill each other for the Crown’s entertainment.

She thinks of Daario’s ravings against the Crown back home, in the safety of the woods. She understands now. But it only makes her feel more useless because what can she do from here?

Then it’s Jon she thinks of, and his last words to her on the roof: _I just wish I could think of a way to show them that they don’t own me. That I’m not just a piece in their games._

And in that moment, she finally understands what he meant.

She wants to do something to shame the Crown, to hold them accountable, to make them understand Missandei was more than just a piece in their game.

Only a few feet away, Dany spots a patch of wildflowers. An array of colors, purple and white and yellow. She kneels in the patch to rip an armful of them out of the ground. She quickly returns to Missandei’s body and takes her time placing them around her, weaving them into her springy curls, tucking them behind her ears, covering up the hideous wound and the blood that soaks into her jacket. It’s her pitiful attempt at a funeral for the girl, the least she can do. She deserves more, but it’s enough that the Gamemakers will see it, that it will be broadcast to every home in Westeros.

Once she’s satisfied with her work, she stands. Missandei looks even younger in death. More tears threaten to fall, and Dany inhales deeply. “Goodbye, Missandei,” she whispers and does the three-finger salute. Then she turns and walks away.

When she’s far enough away, she hears the hovercraft fly overhead. She doesn’t look back.

She’s not sure where she’s going now. She just keeps walking, heedless of her own vulnerability to an attack. If the Careers heard the cannon shots, saw the hovercrafts, they will undoubtedly come. _Let them_ , she thinks, weary but determined. Despite her anger at the Crown, it doesn’t lessen her anger at the Careers. In that moment, her vengeance is a raw and dangerous thing, and she knows she would kill anyone she ran into, right then and there.

But no one comes for her. She walks for a while, unimpeded by tribute or Gamemaker. Perhaps there has been enough bloodshed for the day.

Once the sun sets, Dany picks a tree and climbs it. Tomorrow, when her head is clearer, she will look through the packs to take stock of her supplies, but for now she only takes out the sleeping bag and climbs inside. She’s just about to settle in for the night when a parachute drops into her lap. Tentatively, she opens the container. Inside is a loaf of bread. She stares at it, uncomprehending. Bread? Why, and why now? It’s only when she turns it over in her hand does she see the stamp, the design inlaid into the bread’s crust. A sun. She traces the shallow lines with her finger. It takes a moment to understand: the sun of Ashford, the area of the Reach Missandei is from. _Was._

Her people have sent Dany a gift. To thank her? To acknowledge what she did for Missandei? Dany swallows thickly. Whatever the reason, she feels a wave of gratitude. She lifts her face so the cameras can see her. “Thank you,” she says, strongly and clearly, knowing the gifters will hear her. That everyone else will understand, too. “Thank you for this gift.”

She rips off a bite and eats it, even though her stomach is leaden, and she has absolutely no appetite. But it’s warm and hearty, and she is grateful.

Some time passes before the anthem plays. Ramsay’s and Missandei's pictures fill the sky. For some reason, it only hits her then: She killed someone today. A boy is dead because of her. Her anger from before has left her, and in its place guilt floods in. Of course, she supposes Val and Theon would count as her kills, too, but it was the dragonwasps that really delivered the killing blow. She hadn't intended to kill them; she only meant to get away. But with Ramsay, it was her arrow, her deliberate actions, that killed him. She meant to kill him; she _wanted_ to kill him. She hadn’t hesitated at all. Hadn't even given it a second thought afterward.

Daario was right; it had been as easy as hunting game.

The realization fills her with horror, and she squeezes her eyes shut tightly, awash in shame and wondering just what kind of monster these games are turning her in to. What would Jon think of her now? She's not sure she wants to know.

Eventually, by some miracle, Dany falls asleep, but her sleep is restless. She awakes with the birds at dawn, but she feels a numbness settle in her limbs, making her heavy and listless. A blankness shrouds her thoughts. She hoped to awake with a renewed sense of purpose—to finish these games, to win for Missandei, but at the moment all she feels is hopeless. She just wants to go back to sleep.

Instead, she makes herself sit up. She drinks all the water she has and nibbles on the loaf of bread, forces herself to eat the game in her bag before it goes bad. Then she makes herself sort through the packs. There’s some food in Missandei’s bag, but surprisingly, in Ramsay’s pack, there is little in the way of food. Just a bottle of water and a pack of nuts. He must not have thought he needed it. His arrogance infuriates her, but he has other useful items, like a first-aid kit full of bandages and gauze, a flashlight and a leather pouch. She combines everything into her backpack and throws the empty packs higher onto another branch of her tree so the other tributes will not find them.

She knows she should keep moving, that she’s easy prey just sitting in the tree, but she can’t bring herself to climb down. Finally, she accepts that the day will be a wash. Tomorrow, she will at least find another tree, another spot to hide, but for now, she hunkers down in the sleeping bag once more.

At night, the anthem plays. She closes her eyes, knowing it has been an uneventful day. No doubt tomorrow the Gamemakers will have to make things interesting or risk things getting too stale for the ravenous audience of King’s Landing, so she wants a good night’s sleep if that’s to be the case.

Suddenly, however, trumpets blare, and Dany shoots up in her sleeping bag, alert. Trumpets only herald an announcement from Robert Baratheon. An announcement usually means a call for a feast, in which the remaining tributes will be invited to a banquet at the cornucopia. Sometimes, it’s an actual feast of food for the tributes to fight over. Other times, the Gamemakers will provide items the tributes desperately need.

As she suspected, Robert Baratheon’s timbrous voice booms through the arena.

“Attention, tributes! There has been a rule change in the games!”

A rule change? In all her time watching the Hunger Games, Dany has never heard of a rule change in the middle of the games. Robert continues, and her confusion only grows with every word. “Under this new rule, both tributes from the same region will be declared the victors if they are the last two standing.”

Robert pauses dramatically, as if he knows the announcement is too astonishing to believe on its face, before he repeats the rule change a second time.

All at once, the announcement ends and, slowly, the news sinks in. Two tributes can win the games this year, as long as they’re from the same region. Two tributes can live.

His name is out of her mouth before she can stop herself: “ _Jon!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Jon makes his return next chapter, which goes hard on the the Jonerys moments. It's my favorite chapter by far.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jon team up to end this thing, once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to aliciutza for the great job beta'ing and making the beautiful moodboard! This was my favorite chapter to write. It's all Jonerys, all the way through. Listen. I just love banter. It's my kink.
> 
> Also, it's no Missandei levels of tragedy, I don't think, but I do feel like I have to apologize for what comes near the end of the chapter. It's kinda mean, sorry. (Trigger warning: animal deaths.)
> 
> Also also, note the rating change. Tbh I'm terrible with the rating system, most of what I write is definitely explicit, so this probably should have been M from the start just because of the graphic violence? IDK, I don't know what teens are expected to be able to handle these days. But...to be safe, I changed it, especially because there's a little bit of light dry humping here. I couldn't help it!

* * *

Her voice echoes through the night, and Dany slaps her hands over her mouth. _Stupid!_ That was so stupid! If the Careers are in fact nearby, she just announced her location to them.

Before, she would have gladly taken them on, but now, with that announcement, everything has changed.

She keeps her hands clamped over her mouth, holding her breath as she strains her ears to listen for any noise, any disturbance. But other than the calls of the night owls and the faint frog songs, she hears nothing more. After a moment, she exhales through her nose.

Whatever her previous doubts or misgivings about Jon, they don’t matter anymore. Now, he is no longer the competition or a threat. Now, he is her ally. And she must find him.

That must be the intention of this rule change. It’s completely unprecedented; never before have the Gamemakers allowed two victors. Every year past, the top two were almost always tributes from the Career regions, and often from the same region. For some reason, they’ve made an exception this year, and Dany doesn’t think it’s because of Joffrey and Ygritte.

No, it has to be because of her and Jon, and the star-crossed lovers of Winterfell narrative Jon has seeded ever since the interviews. Now she knows for certain everything he’s done in the arena—stopping her from running to the cornucopia, fighting off Joffrey, even teaming up with the Careers—has been to serve that purpose. He hasn’t been trying to kill her or beat her; he’s been trying to help her. To save her.

Somehow, he’s done it; he’s done the impossible. The idea of their romance must be so popular with the audience that the Gamemakers know they risk backlash even among the King’s Landing audience if they condemn either her or Jon to death.

Despite herself, she laughs, giddy with relief and something else she can’t quite identify. Unconcerned, she drops her hands so the cameras can hear her, see the smile on her face, the hope shimmering in her watery eyes. There are only six tributes left, and now she actually feels like she has a real chance of winning. Not just winning—but returning home with her tribute partner. With Jon.

If she can find him before he dies, she reminds herself, her mood sombering at the thought. If Joffrey is right, he doesn’t have long. It seems a miracle he’s survived this long, if he’s as badly injured as Joffrey claims. He likely can’t hunt in his state, but he can survive for a while on whatever he can forage for. It’s water he can’t survive long without, a few days at most, a fact Dany learned the hard way her first couple of days in the arena. Which means he’s had to have found a source of water by now. Not the lake, of course, but a stream or a pond, one Dany hasn’t been by yet.

It’s a place to start. First thing in the morning, she’ll go looking for him. Tonight, she’ll try to sleep. She’ll need all the energy she can get to track him down, and see this through to the end.

* * *

The next day, after an early start and a quick breakfast, Dany follows the stream farther than she’s ever taken it, into a part of the woods she’s never been before. The ground becomes muddier, steeper, leading her into a ravine of sorts, where the rocky terrain rises high on either side of her. Here, the stream is more a river, the current moving fast and swift. The terrain provides more places to hide, but she’s not sure someone in Jon’s deteriorating state could manage it; not even she, with all her wilderness skills, feels all that safe in this area. She keeps her bow at the ready, just in case.

Coming up empty-handed, she’s just about to turn around and try another direction when she spots a streak of blood on a boulder. It’s clearly been there a while, long dried by now, and the side to side smears suggest someone tried to wipe it away—someone not completely in his right mind, probably. Someone badly hurt and delirious with pain.

With renewed worry and determination, she pushes onward, keeping an eye out for any more signs. She finds them, more bloodstains along the rocks, more frequent and close together, but then they stop altogether. Confused, she retraces her steps. Jon was here at some point; he couldn’t have just vanished into thin air. A horrible thought strikes her then: Unless he fell into the river and was swept away.

No. She can’t consider that possibility, not yet.

She was quiet before, cautious of alerting unwanted predators to her location, but now she tries calling his name. “Jon!” she whisper-yells, trying to keep her desperation at bay. No answer. She circles around the area where the bloodstains are more prominent, moving away from the river and fanning out along the bank. “Jon!” she tries again, wondering if he’s somewhere among the trees. “Jon!”

“Finally come to finish me off?”

Swallowing a gasp of surprise, Dany whirls around, but she sees nothing. “Jon?” she whispers again, creeping back toward the water. She whips her head side to side but sees no one. Her frustration spikes. “Where are you?”

“Well, don’t step on me.”

The voice comes from underfoot, and she nearly screams, jumping back. He laughs, and she sees him, finally—the whites of his eyes and teeth. She gasps as she finally understands: He’s camouflaged himself completely among the bank of the river, painted himself in mud from head to toe, soggy leaves and pebbles piled on top of him.

Amazed and relieved, she drops to her knees beside him. “I guess I should have paid more attention at the camouflage station,” she says, awestruck as she takes him in.

He blinks at her through the mud. “Maybe I can teach you a thing or two, before I die.”

She frowns at him. “You’re not going to die.”

His smile is wan. “If you say so.”

“I do,” she asserts. “We’re getting out of here, you and me. We’re on the same team now.”

“So, I heard.” He chuffs. “Nice of you to find what’s left of me.”

“Where did Joffrey cut you?” she asks warily, and he winces.

“Left leg. High up.”

Dany scans his body, but there’s too much mud and foliage to see any hint of his injury. “We’ll have to wash you off in the river. Then I can see what kind of damage we’re dealing with.” She sets down her bow and opens her backpack to retrieve her water, holding it to his mouth for a sip. His lips are dry, and he drinks readily. Even next to a stream, it must have become too much effort to drink from it.

Once he’s done, she puts her bottle aside. “Lean down a moment,” he says raspily. “Need to tell you something.” Confused, she lowers her ear to his mouth to hear him better as he whispers conspiratorially, “Remember, we’re madly in love, so it’s alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

A laugh bursts from her lips, and she jerks away from him, a hot blush inflaming her cheeks. What has gotten into him? “I’ll keep that in mind,” she says instead then takes his arm to help him sit up. He groans loudly, too weak to assist her.

Getting him to the water on her own will be impossible, she soon realizes; he’s in too much pain to move himself. She’s going to have to clean him where he sits. “I’ll bring the water to you,” she decides. He doesn’t object as she crosses the distance to the river and fills up the two water bottles from her pack. Back at his side, she manages to heave him into a sitting position despite his cries, sending the pebbles scattering. Once he’s upright, she sits back on her haunches to catch her breath.

“I need to take off your clothes so I can wash them,” she tells him apologetically, pulling off a couple handfuls of stuck-on leaves. “Is that OK?”

“I don’t care,” he says wearily. He’s able to lift his arms up, at least, and she strips his jacket and shirt over his head, taking off a layer of caked-on mud and leaves. With his shirt off, she can see the swollen stings from the dragonwasps on his arms. His pale skin is riddled with bruises and burns. And he’s thin, thinner than she remembers him being at the tribute parade.

She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth. “Have you eaten recently?”

“No. Honestly, I haven’t been hungry in days,” he says. That’s concerning, but she doesn’t say anything. She tosses his shirt and jacket to the edge of the water, then slowly pours the water from her bottle over his head, clearing the mud from his face, working her fingers through his matted hair until the leaves and clumps of mud are gone. He’s too weak to help her but keeps his eyes shut, lifting his face, sputtering as the water trickles over his mouth. Gradually, as she clears the mud away, she realizes just how warm his skin feels to her touch. She has to fill up the bottles twice more just to get his face and hair completely clean.

Once that’s taken care of, she turns her attention to his pants. It’s awkward disrobing a boy, even though she’s trying to save his life. She tells herself she’s already seen everything, but it does nothing to alleviate the heat in her face. She decides to start with his boots, working the laces free and pulls them off with his socks.

But she can’t avoid the inevitable any longer. “I need you to lie back,” she instructs, and he sighs out loud.

“Gladly,” he mutters, dropping to his back with a grunt.

“I’m taking off your pants now,” she says unnecessarily. Her voice is less steady. “Is that OK?”

“Already said I don’t care.”

She makes a face, even though he’s no longer looking at her. “Not even if I take off your underwear?”

He huffs out a pained laugh. “Granted, it’s not quite how I imagined this moment going, but no. The mystery has already been ruined, anyway.”

She cuts him a bewildered look. “What do you mean, _how you imagined_?” she squeaks, sure she’s gone red all over.

He groans quietly. “Nothing. Just...do what you have to.”

Puffing out her cheeks, Dany forges on, hastily unbuttoning and unzipping his pants to pull them down his legs. She stops when she reaches the wound on his upper thigh, her heart sinking. The camouflage concealed it before, but now she can see the true extent of the damage Joffrey’s sword has done. The gash is deep and inflamed, pus and blood oozing from it. She can actually smell the rot. No wonder he feels feverish.

The sight, the smell, all make her queasy, and she bites down on her tongue, afraid her breakfast might make a return.

“It’s bad, huh?” Jon says quietly, and she looks up to see him watching her, one eye squinted. He knows. She tries to put on a brave face, anyway.

“Not too bad,” she lies, her voice too high. “I’m sure I’ve got something to help you.” She gets his pants off and throws them into the pile with his other clothes. Next, she scrummages through her backpack for the first-aid kit, taking out bandages and gauze. She also finds some pills that should help with the fever he’s running.

“Take these,” she tells him, helping him swallow them. Then she gets to work cleaning his wound, very gingerly pouring water on it to clear away the pus. He grits his teeth, his face growing shiny with sweat, but he doesn’t complain. The more she cleans his wound, the worse it looks. She stops to consider the best course of action now.

“I have a few things we can try. I can help your dragonwasp stings first, at least.” She gets the leaves she took from Missandei’s pack and chews them as her friend showed her, plastering the spit wads to the lumps on his arms and neck. He lets out a small sigh, which she takes as a good sign. She tries the technique on his leg wound, too, hoping whatever healing properties in the leaves will draw out the infection. It does, sort of; within minutes, the pus beings pouring down his leg into the pebbles of the river bank beneath him. She watches in muted horror, stomach churning dangerously.

“Daenernys?” She jerks her head up at the sound of her name. Jon raises his eyebrows. “How ‘bout that kiss?”

She bursts out laughing, almost hysterical now. “Stop! This isn’t funny, Jon.”

“Who said I was joking?” he says innocently, but his eyes are smiling.

“You definitely have a fever.”

“How can you be sure?”

She gives him a look. “You’re being absurd. Cracking jokes at a time like this. You’re normally so...sullen,” she says, wincing at the harshness of the word.

“I’m just trying to make you feel better. You look like you want to run screaming right now.”

He’s not wrong. Helpless, she shakes her head. “I’m not good at this. I’m not a healer. I’m not my mother. Truthfully, this kind of stuff makes me sick to my stomach.”

“How do you hunt?” he asks, amused.

“It’s different! Killing things is much easier than healing them.” She chews on her lip. “For all I know, I _am_ killing you.”

“Could you hurry it up, then?” he asks dryly, and she scowls at him.

“No. You’re not getting out of this that easily,” she says stubbornly.

He huffs. “What’s been easy about this? Trust me, there are easier ways to die.”

She ignores him, removing the leaves once she’s determined most of the pus is gone. “I have some burn ointment. It might help with the inflamation.” She opens the lid on the pot and gingerly smears some around his wound.

“Fancy,” Jon murmurs, hissing slightly when her fingers swipe over the gash itself.

“I had a pretty bad burn on my calf a few days ago. This stuff helped a lot,” she explains. “Came straight from King’s Landing. Tyrion sent it. I can’t imagine how much it must have cost.”

Jon is quiet for a moment, and she looks at him. He has a queer look on his face. “Huh,” is all he says, and she frowns.

“What? Has he sent you anything?”

“No.”

She blinks, absorbing this simple fact. “Oh.”

He smiles bitterly, shaking his head. “I always knew you were his favorite,” he says quietly. She’s not sure what to say to that. What can she? Jon’s been lying here, dying, for days, possibly, and Tyrion hasn’t lifted a finger to help him.

Dany finishes the rest of her work in silence, wrapping the wound in gauze and bandages. Looking at his undergarments, she hesitates.

“Jon. I should...I have to take off your underwear now,” she blurts out. “OK?”

He rests his head back. “Sure. Go for it.”

“Do you want to cover yourself with my backpack, maybe?” she offers, and he lets out a weak laugh.

“It’s nothing the audience hasn’t already seen. Like I said, the mystique is gone.”

That’s true. After their chariot ride, she herself had no qualms stripping down to bathe in the pond. Still, she moves quickly, keeping her eyes averted as she removes his boxers then hurries to the water to wash them with the rest. It takes a while to rinse his clothes clean of the mud and clay, then she lays them out on a nearby boulder to dry off. It’s a fairly warm day, the sun hot overhead, so she hopes they’ll dry fast. She returns to Jon to find him dozing. He’s mostly clean, so she decides to let him rest while his clothes dry. Even though he said he didn’t care, Dany shrugs out of her jacket and lays it over him, just to afford him some dignity.

There’s not much else she can do at this time but hunt. Removing her socks and shoes, she rolls up her pants legs then wades into the water, shin-deep, to catch some fish. It would be easier with a net, but without one, she takes one of her arrows instead, using it to spear any fish that swim downstream past her feet. It takes a few tries, but she manages to catch two. Climbing out of the water, she makes a fire on the dry part of the bank. She keeps an eye on Jon while she guts and cleans the fish, setting them on a couple rocks in the fire to cook. Once they’re done, she goes to Jon to wake him.

“Jon, you need to eat,” she tells him gently.

“I’m not hungry,” he complains. She retrieves his clothes from the boulder. They’re slightly damp still but dry enough, and she helps him get dressed again. He seems to have more energy, at least, managing to help her pull his clothes back on. His forehead isn’t as hot to the touch as it was, but he’s still warm.

She tries to coax him into eating the fish, but he wrinkles his nose in distaste. “I can’t.”

“You have to eat something,” she pleads. “Please? For me?”

That seems to do the trick. He refuses the fish, but she convinces him to eat the nuts she found in Ramsay’s pack. She eats her fish, saving his for later, and fills up the water bottles, helping him take a few sips once they’re purified. Then she kicks dirt and rocks onto the fire and packs up, hooking her bow over her shoulder. “Come on. We have to go.”

“Go where?” he asks, clearly not looking forward to the prospect of physically moving.

“Somewhere we’re not so exposed.” She helps him to his feet, which are left bare. She tied his boots together to carry on his shoulder so they can walk through the stream, erasing their tracks. It takes some effort to get him standing, though the food and water and pills have helped to restore some of his energy. But she can tell standing pains him; his face goes sheet-white when he puts any weight on his left leg, so she braces him on her shoulder.

Even as thin as he’s become since training, he’s heavy, and holding him up requires a lot of effort. “Gods,” she gasps as they limp along, her muscles shaking with the strain. “What do you weigh? You’re like d—” She stops suddenly, swallowing the words, but somehow Jon fills in the blanks.

“Dead weight?” he grits out, trying for humor despite the fact that he’s about to pass out.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“Aye, more like half-dead weight.”

“Shut up,” she huffs.

They don’t make it but fifty yards downstream before Jon has to stop, the pain too much. Dany sits him down on a boulder and puts his head between his legs, rubbing his back as he breathes through the nausea. She takes a moment to survey their surroundings. Some of the rocks form cave-like structures, and she spies one about twenty feet above the stream.

“We have to keep moving,” she tells him.

He swallows hard. “I don’t think I can.”

She points to the cave behind him. “Just to that spot. Then you can rest, I promise.”

Looking over his shoulder, he sets his jaw with grim determination. Once he’s ready, she helps him stand again and half-carries him to the cave where he finally collapses, ghostly white and shivering.

“Wait here,” she tells him.

“Where else would I go?” he replies as she crawls into the cave. There are no animals or predators to be found, thankfully. She gathers some pine needles from outside to cover the stone ground then unpacks her sleeping bag, unzipping it and spreading it out before returning for him. He can’t crawl inside, so he rolls onto his right side, dragging himself to the sleeping bag where he collapses with a prolonged groan.

She gives him some more water and coaxes him into eating some dried fruit. Then, while he rests, she makes a kind of blind out of vines and branches to conceal the entrance to the cave. It’s not her best work, and might only fool an animal that doesn’t know any better, but it will have to do.

“Daenerys,” Jon calls to her, and she turns to him. His pale face has turned serious. “Thank you. For finding me.”

“You would have done the same for me, if you’d been able to.” She goes to his side, pushing the damp hair back from his forehead to test his forehead. He’s hot again. The fever is worse than it was earlier.

He nods, staring up at her. “I would have. Listen. If I don’t make it out of here—”

“Don’t say that,” she interrupts him. “You’re going to make it.”

“But if I don’t—”

“Stop talking like that. I didn’t drain all that pus just for you to die,” she says, trying to make light of it, but he looks so serious, and she knows he can hear it in her voice. Suddenly, she’s afraid he might die.

“I know. But I just—”

“No, Jon.”

“Daenerys—” He’s frustrated. Impulsively, Dany leans forward and kisses him, stopping the words on his tongue. It’s the first time she’s ever kissed a boy. His lips are hot, dry, but she lingers before pulling back, a blush creeping into her cheeks. For his part, Jon looks dumbstruck, but he doesn’t say anything more, at least.

“You’re not going to die,” she says fiercely. “I forbid it. OK?”

“OK,” he murmurs.

Pleased something is going her way at the moment, she pulls the edge of the sleeping bag up over him. “Sleep if you want to. I’m going to go forage for some food.”

“Don’t go far,” he says. The sudden fear in his voice touches her.

“I won’t, no farther than the river,” she promises.

It turns out, she doesn’t even have to go that far; the moment she steps outside of the cave, a parachute lands at her feet. Excited, she scoops it up. Tyrion’s done it! He’s gotten medicine for Jon! When she tears into the container, however, what she finds confuses her. It’s only a pot of broth.

What good is this? She doesn’t know what a pot of broth will do for Jon—but almost immediately she realizes it’s not for him. It’s for her. Tyrion is trying to send her a message: _They want a show, remember? Give me something to work with here._

Of course. He needs a romance to sell, and one kiss isn’t going to do it. How many kisses will it take to get Jon the medicine he needs to survive? There’s only one way to find out.

Plastering on a bright smile, Dany crawls back into the cave with the parachute. “Jon!” she says with false cheerfulness. He startles out of his slumber at her voice. “Look what Tyrion sent you!”

“Broth?” he says when she shows it to him. He curls his lip skeptically. “Is that supposed to fix my leg?”

“No, but a full stomach might help,” she retorts. Sitting down cross-legged at his side, she scoops some broth onto the spoon that came with it. “Now open up.”

Petulant, he turns his face away. “I told you, I’m not hungry.”

“I think you are, but the fever makes you think you’re not.”

At that, he shoots her a dubious look. “I thought you weren’t a healer.”

“I’m not. But my mother is, and I’ve picked up a few of her tricks. Open up.” When he refuses, she gives him an imploring look. “ _Please_ , Jon.” Finally, he relents. It takes a few more pleas and a few more kisses, but Jon finishes the entire bowl of broth. The effort seems to have exhausted him, however, and he quickly nods off; while he dozes again, she takes the opportunity to polish off the second fish and the last of the bread from the Reach. It’s gone stale, but her appetite has returned, and she finds it’s some of the best bread she’s ever tasted. She’ll need to hunt again soon, but she’s hesitant to leave Jon unguarded and alone. Maybe tomorrow he’ll be better, she tells herself.

Night comes; the anthem plays, but there are no new deaths. She hopes she and Jon have provided the Crown enough entertainment to leave them in peace for the night. She settles down next to Jon where he sleeps to keep watch, bow and arrow at the ready. It doesn’t take long for the temperature to drop rapidly, and soon she is trembling from the cold. She gives in and joins Jon on the sleeping bag, trying to pull some of it over her. Hopefully he won’t mind.

* * *

It’s a long, uneventful night. When dawn arrives, she heads out to hunt. She can tell it’s going to be a hot day already. She doesn’t want to start a fire now that they’ve found shelter, so she’ll have to stick to catching fish.

When she returns to the cave, Jon is awake and looking concerned. He struggles into a sitting position. “Where were you? I was worried.”

She smiles and shows him the fish she gutted and cleaned before wrapping it in a piece of the plastic from her pack. That should help preserve it for a little bit. “About me? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re the sick one.”

“I was worried Joffrey and Ygritte got you. They like to hunt at night.”

Dany makes him drink some water. She checks his forehead again, trying not to worry. He’s still hot. She gives him more pills. “I think they might have more pressing issues, honestly. Like finding food.” With a sly smile, she tells him, “I blew up their supplies.”

He stares at her. “You blew up their supplies? How? When?”

“After I dropped the dragonwasp nest on you guys.” She casts him an apologetic look. “Sorry about that. I thought you were trying to kill me.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. I understand how it might have looked from your point of view. How did you destroy their supplies? They had mines around it.” His look turns to one of amazement. “You figured that out?”

“Not by myself,” she demurs. “One of the tributes, Margaery, helped me, though she doesn’t know it. But once I realized how it was boobytrapped, I shot some arrows at the apples and set off all the mines. There was nothing left.”

He laughs hoarsely. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?” But the way he says it, she knows it’s a compliment.

Embarrassed, pleased, she shrugs. “I didn’t do it alone. Missandei helped me. The girl from the Reach.” Just talking about her makes her throat tighten, and she stops, looking away. His amusement dying, Jon stares at her and seems to understand.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

Dany coughs to clear her throat. “Anyway. Now they have to find food like the rest of us. I figure that leaves them less time for hunting people.”

Somberly, Jon shakes his head again. “Don’t be so sure. That might just mean they’re more eager to finish this.” After a moment, he chuckles to himself. “No wonder Joffrey hates you so much. He’s been angry ever since you beat him in training scores. He ranted about it constantly. Every day, I swear.” He lies back down. “Gods, he’s such a little shit. All of the Careers are. They’re so fucking insufferable.”

She can’t help but laugh. “How did you pretend to be their ally for so long?”

“Arrogance can make anyone stupid, I guess. Ygritte wasn’t completely fooled, though, I don’t think.”

Dany rolls her eyes. “Sure looked like she was to me.”

Jon frowns. “What do you mean?”

“She seemed quite taken with you, from what I saw.”

He looks startled by this. “How much did you see?”

An embarrassed flush warms her face. “Enough to know she was obviously into you.”

Brow furrowing, he smiles slowly. “Daenerys.” A beat. “Were you jealous?”

“I was _not_ ,” she insists, unable to look him in the eye. “It was just...disturbing. To watch two people flirt in the middle of the _games_.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Like right now?” She gives him an imploring, wide-eyed look, and he decides to cut her some slack, shaking his head with a smile to himself. “Anyway. Ygritte had her doubts, but she wanted to believe, I guess. Regardless, Joffrey was the de facto leader. They were too afraid to contradict him.” Jon looks at her. “They thought you were dumb. They underestimated you.”

“And you,” she says.

He closes his eyes suddenly, his face drawn. “Who’s the one dying here?”

“You’re not going to die,” she says. “Come on. I need to change your bandage.” He helps her slide his pants down. Given their topic of conversation, the moment is fraught, but she tries not to show how rattled she is by the intimate gesture. With his pants at his knees, she pushes up the leg of his boxers and unwraps the bandage, carefully removing the gauze. What she sees makes her stomach drop. The pus has cleared entirely, but the skin is even more inflamed, tight and shiny around the cut. Worse, she can see the dark red streaks crawling up his leg. Sepsis. The infection is worse, much worse.

“Well?” he asks.

She takes a deep breath. “It’s—the pus is gone, at least. It’s just...a bit more swollen,” she says lamely.

“I know what sepsis looks like, Daenerys,” he says seriously, and her gaze snaps to his. He looks resigned.

“You’re just going to have to outlast the others, Jon,” she tells him. “If we can get you back to King’s Landing, they’ll have the medicine you need there.”

“Sure,” he says, but it’s obvious that it’s mostly for her benefit. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and the rest of the tributes will take care of each other, leaving us winners by default.”

“It’s happened before,” she says, and it has, but, of course, it’s very rare. “Stranger things have happened.”

Closing his eyes, he smiles grimly. “Not as strange as two victors. What are the odds?”

Dany frowns. “You’re not making much sense, Jon.”

“Sure I am. You’re just not hearing the sense.”

The fever must be talking now. “You should sleep.”

Peeling his eyes open again, he shakes his head. “I’ve slept enough. You rest now.” She starts to object, but he shifts on the sleeping bag so she can join him. “You can’t stay awake forever. I’ll keep watch. Come on.”

She hesitates, but she knows he’s right. She won’t be much good at protecting him if she doesn’t sleep every now and then. “Fine. Just for a couple hours though.” As she lies down at his side, he props himself up against the wall. “You’ll wake me?”

“Of course. Go to sleep,” he tells her, and she closes her eyes. After a moment, she feels his hand on her head, smoothing her hair back from her forehead. Her eyes flutter open at his touch but immediately close again. The gesture is calming, soothing, and before long, she slips into a deep sleep.

* * *

The second she awakes, she knows she slept too long. Dany sits up with a start, but when she looks at Jon, he’s looking at her, still seated next to her. She relaxes, just barely. “You let me sleep too long,” she accuses, but he shrugs.

“You didn’t miss anything.” He smiles slightly. “Did you know you snore when you sleep? Not loudly, just these little snuffling breaths. Like a pig or something.”

Her face goes hot with indignation, but Rhaenys has told her the same thing. “No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend if you regularly compare them to pigs,” she says, and he chuckles.

“I just meant...it’s cute.”

It could be worse, she supposes; at least she didn’t drool in her sleep. “How are you feeling?” she asks, discreetly checking her chin for dried saliva.

“Thirsty,” he admits. Dany checks the bottles, finding them empty. She takes them down to the river to fill them up. When she returns, she hands him a bottle, and he thanks her. She offers him the fish she caught before, but he wrinkles his nose in distaste.

“Is that safe to eat?”

“I can’t cook it right now, so we have to eat it raw. It should be fine. I’ve done it before.”

“I just don’t have an appetite right now,” he complains, and she realizes he looks as miserable as he sounds. She touches his forehead again.

“Drink, at least. Then try to sleep.” He complies, settling down on the sleeping bag. She rips up some strips of the bandage from the first-aid kit and wets them, laying them across his forehead, hoping it will help cool him. She doesn’t know what else to do for him. At this rate, he’s not going to make it to the end of the games.

“Thanks,” he says, catching her hand. She looks down at him and squeezes his fingers.

“Need anything else?”

“No.” But he seems to rethink this. “Yes, actually. Tell me a story.”

She gives him an exasperated look. “A story about what?”

“Something with a happy ending.”

She laughs. “You sound like Rhaenys. Always asking me to tell her a bedtime story with a happy ending.”

“Of course.” He makes a face at her. “What kind of monster reads to a kid a story with a _sad_ ending?”

Rolling her eyes, she tells him wryly, “You’re not a kid.”

“No, but I’m dying.”

She scowls at him. “Stop saying that, or you can go to sleep without a bedtime story.”

“OK, OK, I swear I won’t say it again.”

Huffing out an irritated breath, she racks her brain. There’s been so little happy moments in her life, at least since Rhaegar’s death. Rhaenys brings her moments of levity, Daario, too, but Dany doesn’t think talking about another boy is exactly what Jon wants to hear. Nor the audience, she imagines.

“How did you learn to hunt?” Jon asks her, and she’s grateful for the help. It might not be the best idea to reveal this to the Crown, but they already know she can hunt and had to have learned somehow, so what’s the worst they can do to her now?

“My brother taught me. Whenever he’d go out into the woods, I used to beg him to take me with him. He would always say, ‘Not today, Dany. When you’re older.’”

“Dany?” Jon repeats.

“It’s what my family calls me. And my friends,” she explains, and he smiles.

“I like it. Anyway, you were saying.”

“One day I got so mad, I yelled at him. ‘If I’m not old enough now, when will I be?’” She smiles slightly. “I was 10 at the time.” Jon laughs gruffly, and she continues. “The next day he woke me up at 5 in the morning, and he said, ‘If you want to come hunting with me, you better be ready in five minutes, or I’m leaving without you.’ I was so excited, I ran out the door without my boots on. He made me go back inside and put them on, then he took me to the woods and said I couldn’t speak the whole time. All I could do was watch so I could learn. It was the most boring day of my life.”

Jon laughs again, coughing slightly, and she continues, “But after that day, I kept going with him, observing. I learned a lot. Finally, he decided it was time to show me how to use a bow. He’d made one for me himself. Smaller than his. I was terrible at first. Like, really bad. But he told me it took practice and to keep trying. The day I made my first kill was one of the greatest days of my life. I’ll never forget how proud he was of me.”

Momentarily, she gets lost in her memory of that time. Jon brings her back with a squeeze of her hand. “Thanks for sharing. Sounds like your brother was a decent guy,” he says quietly.

She touches the three-headed dragon pin on her jacket. “He was. In my mind, at least. He was the best person I ever knew.” She hesitates, wondering if it’s a good time to broach the subject of his mother and Rhaegar again. “Did you—”

A sudden trumpet startles them both, but then she’s on her knees, at the entrance of the cave to listen. As expected, it’s Robert Baratheon again, and this time, he’s announcing a feast. She’s about to wave him off, but his next words give her pause.

“Before you decline, you should know this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something, _desperately_. You will find that something in a backpack, marked with your region’s name, at the cornucopia at dawn. For some of you, this will be your last chance,” Robert intones with deadly finality. The announcement ends there, his ominous words hanging in the air.

Dany jumps when she feels a hand on her shoulder, and she whirls around to find Jon has crawled off the sleeping bag. “Don’t even think about it,” he warns.

“Our backpack will have medicine for your leg. It’s your only chance,” she argues, but he’s already shaking his head.

“No. You’re not risking your life for me. It’s not worth it.”

She grows incensed at his words. “How can you say that? I have a chance to save your life!”

“And if it ends up costing your life, then we both die, and what was the point?”

She scowls at him. “It’s better than doing nothing. You can’t stop me.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “No, but I can follow you.”

“You won’t get far on that leg.”

“Then I’ll drag myself.” He shrugs. “If you’re going, then I’m going.”

Dany scoffs. “Don’t be stupid, Jon.”

He glowers at her. “ _You_ don’t be stupid. Joffrey and Ygritte will be waiting for you! They’ll kill you!”

“I can’t just sit here and watch you die!” she yells at him, and as if he can hear the desperation in her voice, he softens immediately.

“I won’t. I won’t die. I promise. If you promise not to go.”

They’re at a stalemate, she knows; he won’t be convinced, but she knows she can’t _not_ go to that feast. He won’t last much longer, not like this. For now, however, she pretends to relent until she can figure out a better plan. “Fine. Then you have to do everything I say. Take your pills, drink your water, and eat the food I give you.”

“I will,” he swears. “I’ll even eat the fish. Look.”

When he grabs for the plastic, she snatches it out of his hand. “Give me that.” With a huff, she turns around. “Wait here. I’ll figure out a way to cook it.”

Outside the damp shade of the cave, it’s hot and sunny. Dany heads down to the river. As she hoped, the stones along the river bank are hot to the touch, almost scalding, after baking in the sun all day, and she lays the fish out on them, hoping it’s hot enough to at least cook through. While she waits, she tries to formulate a plan for the feast. She could go while he sleeps, but he probably expects that; he will probably stay up all night just to spite her. If he did fall asleep, there’s no telling at what point he might wake up, and if he sees that she’s gone, he’ll come after her and probably get himself killed in the process. If only she had a way to ensure he would stay asleep until after the feast is over...

She’s so lost in her thoughts, she almost misses the parachute until it nearly floats by her. She grabs it out of the water before it can get too far out of reach. Opening it, she’s hopeful that Tyrion has solved the problem for her by pooling enough money together for anti-infection medicine, but all she finds inside is a small vial. Antibiotics maybe? She opens it and gives it a sniff; it’s sweet, sickly sweet...and strangely familiar. To confirm her suspicions, she dips her pinky in it and gives it the smallest taste. Just as she thought: it’s a sleeping syrup called Shade of the Evening; her mother uses it for her patients back home, when they’re in too much pain to sleep or when she needs to knock them out to fix a severe wound.

Her mind begins to spin, comprehending Tyrion’s intent. With a bottle this size, she could knock Jon out for a whole day. More than enough time to get to the cornucopia and back.

“You’re a genius,” she whispers, imagining their mentor’s smirk of acknowledgement.

Dany forages until she finds a berry bush, something edible and sweet enough on its own. She uses a stone to mash them up on the plastic then mixes the whole vial of syrup into the mush. Once the fish is finally done, twilight is upon them, and she quickly hikes back up to the cave.

Jon sits up immediately, relieved that she’s returned. She hands him the plastic with the fish and berry mush. “The fish should be better now. And I found a new patch of berries a little farther downstream, for a little treat. They’re really good.”

He obediently eats the fish, managing not to grimace through it, and she tries not to watch too intently when he starts on the berries. On the first bite, his brow furrows. “It’s very sweet,” he comments even as he eats another bite.

“They’re sugar berries,” she lies, her pulse fluttering. “Rhaenys makes jam with them back home. It’s really good on bread.”

“Tastes really familiar,” he says, clearly puzzled, and she holds her breath as he eats another mouthful, and another. It’s almost gone. _Just one more bite,_ she begs silently. “Kind of like syrup.” His eyes widen as the realization hits him then. “Syrup.”

Frantic, Dany lunges for him and clamps her hand over his mouth and nose, forcing him to swallow the last spoonful instead of spitting it out. With a burst of strength, he shoves her away and tries to make himself throw it up, but it’s too late, the effects of the Shade of the Evening are already hitting him. With a groan, he slumps to the ground and rolls onto his back, looking at her with such betrayal in his eyes, she feels sick.

But it does the trick. Within seconds, he’s unconscious.

* * *

A few hours before dawn, Dany begins her final preparations for her hike to the cornucopia. She eats a small meal, then packs her water in her bag with a few other small items of food, like roots and berries. She leaves a bottle of water with Jon, as well as the first-aid kit and her knife. It might not do him much good, especially if she dies—because he’s right, if she dies, he’s as good as dead, too—but in case she doesn’t make it back, he’ll have some protection if the others find him.

Just before she leaves, she tucks the sleeping bag around him and, impulsively, presses a kiss to his lips. Not for the cameras, not even for him, but for herself. If she dies, the last memory she’ll have of him is that look of betrayal. But she has to try, even if he hates her in the end.

“I’m going to save you,” she murmurs, even though he can’t hear her.

Armed with her bow and her quiver of arrows, Dany sets out from the cave, Ramsay’s flashlight strapped to her backpack for some illumination. It’s dark and a bit eerie as she follows the river back into the woods. Eventually, she leaves the rocky terrain for the more familiar, level ground. Even at night, she makes good time, sticking to her familiar path through the woods to the clearing by the lake; luckily, she’s not too concerned that the Careers will bother her until she’s at the cornucopia.

Once she knows she’s close to the lake, she turns off her flashlight. By the time she reaches Missandei’s hiding place in the copse, judging by the color of the sky, she figures she has a little less than an hour till dawn. She wiggles into the brush to take up her position. There’s no one else near the cornucopia that she can see. Either she’s the first to arrive, or they’re all hiding as well. The dark sky is clear of clouds, flooding the clearing with a decent bit of moonlight. Probably the Gamemakers wanted to make sure they had a good view of what’s to come.

Eventually, Dang hears the beginnings of the morning birds’ songs. Just as the sun starts to rise, there’s a disturbance by the cornucopia. The ground splits at the mouth of the horn, and a table lifts into view. On it sits four backpacks, all in different colors. From this distance, she can’t tell which one is meant for her and Jon.

The table has just settled into place when a figure darts out of the mouth of the cornucopia, snags the green backpack, then speeds off into the woods. Dany catches the stream of coppery hair before she disappears into the trees. _Margaery_. Of course, the sly girl from the Riverlands would think to hide in the most obvious place and make the first move! Now Dany knows her hand is forced—the others will want to make their move, too, and if they take her bag, she’ll be forced to go after them and fight for it.

Gritting her teeth, she bursts from the copse and sprints for the table. Senses honed by years of hunting pick up the danger before she even sees it; she turns just as the first knife whizzes by her head. Arrow already drawn and nocked, she releases it at her pursuer in mid-stride. Hot on her heels, Ygritte tries to dodge the arrow, but it catches her in the left arm. She has to stop to yank it out, giving Dany enough time to reach the table and grab her bag, the red one labeled “North.”

Just as she turns around, a knife catches her in the forehead, right above her eyebrow, cutting a gash that sends blood pouring down her face and into her eye. She staggers, half-blinded, when her assailant slams into her, knocking her flat to the ground. Ygritte shoves Dany’s shoulders into the hard dirt, pinning her arms under her knees so she can’t reach for her bow.

Helpless, she braces herself for the bite of steel on her throat, but, apparently, Ygritte wants to savor this moment. Joffrey must be near, watching her back and waiting for Jon to appear so he can ambush him.

“Where’s your boyfriend, huh?” Ygritte taunts. “Where’s he to save your scrawny ass now?”

Dany blinks against the blood sticking her eyelashes together. If she can keep Ygritte talking, maybe she can buy herself some time. “He’s close. Probably hunting Joffrey right now,” she sneers, then she sucks in a breath to scream at the top of her lungs. “ _Jon! Jon!_ ”

Ygritte punches her windpipe, cutting off her scream, and Dany gags and coughs. Still, Ygritte whips her head back and forth, as if she might believe her. Then she scoffs, giving Dany an ugly grin. “You’re full of shit. He’s almost dead, isn’t he? You got him stashed in a tree somewhere while you’re here? I bet that’s what’s in your bag. Medicine for your boyfriend.” She curls her lip and presses her forearm against Dany’s throat, making it even harder to breathe. “Too bad he’ll never get it.”

Dany is still coughing and struggling for air when Ygritte pulls a knife from her belt. “It’s a shame, really. That Lover Boy hitched his train to _yours_ , when he could have had a real winner.” Dany sees the glint of the blade as Ygritte examines it, touching her finger to the sharp point. “Despite being from such a pitiful place like the North, Jon intrigued me. And, between you and me, he’s not too hard on the eyes either, huh?” She gives Dany a disgusted onceover. “It’s a mystery what he even sees in you.” She smiles suddenly. “Well. What he _saw_ in you, anyway. When I’m done with you, there won’t be much left to look at.”

At her words, fear spikes through Dany. She begins to struggle violently, trying desperately to unseat the girl, but Ygritte shoves the blade against her throat, grinding her knees into her arms in a way that makes Dany cry out.

“Don’t even think about it. We’ve got you now,” she gloats. “And we’re going to kill you, just like we killed your little _friend_. What was her name? Missandei? First her, then you, and then we’ll go find your little boyfriend and finish him off, too. How’s that sound?”

“Fuck you,” Dany sneers. Ygritte’s comment about Missandei has filled her with fury now. She refuses to go down without a fight.

“Well, that’s not very nice.” Grinning, Ygritte moves her knife to Dany’ mouth, tracing her lips. When she tries to turn her face away, Ygritte fists her hand in her hair to hold her head still. “I think I’ll start with that filthy mouth of yours. What do you think?”

Dany clamps her lips together, working up a mouthful of saliva and blood, then she spits it in the other girl’s face. Ygritte sucks in a breath and wipes it away, the smile long gone. She bares her teeth in a furious snarl. “You’ll pay for that, you stupid bitch.”

Dany braces for the first cut, but Ygritte’s weight lifts off her suddenly, and she screams in surprise. Blinking, Dany frantically wipes the blood from her eye as she squints at the girl dangling above her, trying to make sense of what’s happening.

That’s when she sees him—Grey. He’s got Ygritte locked in his arms, her feet kicking wildly in the air as she struggles against his hold. He spins around and slams her to the ground. Dany scrambles into a sitting position, but he ignores her, advancing on Ygritte.

“What did you say about that little girl? You kill her?” he growls.

For her part, Ygritte looks terrified. “N-no! I didn’t! It wasn’t me!”

“I heard you. You said her name. You said you killed her!” Rage has transformed his face into something wild, something lethal. “Did you cut her up like you were about to do to this girl?”

“No! I—” For the first time, Ygritte finally seems to notice the spear in Grey’s hand. Her eyes widen, and she begins screaming. “Joff! Help!”

“Ygritte!” His answering shout comes from a distance. Dany is too afraid to take her eyes off Grey, but Joffrey sounds too far away to help. Where was he hiding? Had he been trying to find Jon?

Grey grips the spear shaft in both hands just as Ygritte spins around on her hands and knees to make a run for it, and he jams the point of it through the back of her throat, effectively cutting off her next scream. Joffrey shouts, somewhere closer but still too far away. Grey jerks the spear out, her body falling to the ground, and whirls on Dany.

She knows it’s useless to reach for her bow. By the time she could get the arrow notched, he’d kill her.

“What did she mean?” Grey demands. A cannon fires. “About Missandei being your friend?”

She’s so stunned by his question, that he hasn’t immediately killed her, she stumbles over her words. “I—I—we teamed up. She helped me. We blew up the, the supplies. I tried to save her—they—he got to her first. Ramsay.”

“You killed him?”

She bobs her head. “Then I—I covered her in flowers. Sang to her until she—until it was over.”

Conflict flickers across his face, then it clears, and he points a finger at her. “Just this one time. I let you go. For the girl. For Missandei.” Dany doesn’t know what to say, but Grey’s already moving away, grabbing the last two bags from the table. Then he looks off to the side, probably in Joffrey’s direction, then at her. “You better run now, Girl on Fire. He’s coming.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice; Dany grabs her bow and shoves herself off the ground. With her bag still clutched in her fist, she takes off running, and Grey does the same. She sprints as fast as she can, even as blood flows down her face. Only when she reaches the safety of the woods does she look back. Grey has disappeared into the field, but Joffrey has finally reached the cornucopia, too late to do anything for his partner. Standing over Ygritte’s body, he looks at the empty table and lets out a primal scream, which sends Dany scrambling deeper into the woods.

She makes it to stream and keeps running, trying to wipe at the blood that pours into her eye and blinds her. At least, it’s daytime now, and she can see her path more easily. Right now, Joffrey is more likely to go after Grey than her, if for no other reason than to get his backpack the other boy stole. Despite that knowledge, Dany is too scared to stop moving.

Somehow, she makes it back to the cave, breathless and trembling. Jon hasn’t moved an inch from when she left him, but she can still see the slow rise and fall of his chest. She nearly sobs out loud. He’s alive. He’s going to survive.

Dropping down at his side, she rips open the red bag and shakes out the contents onto the cave floor. A slim, rectangular box falls out. Inside is exactly one prefilled hypodermic needle. Without hesitating, she jams it into Jon’s arm and presses the plunger down, emptying the contents into his vein.

Almost instantaneously, the adrenaline leaves her, her body going limp. She touches the slippery cut on her forehead, but even that’s an effort. Her head spins, dizziness and exhaustion overwhelming her, and she collapses next to Jon.

Just like that, she slips into unconsciousness.

* * *

“Dany? Can you hear me?”

Her eyes flutter open, and for a moment she forgets where she is, who she’s with. She starts to panic until Jon’s face comes into focus. He touches her cheek, his brow furrowed in concern. “Hey. Finally. You’re awake.”

“You’re OK,” she croaks.

“Thanks to you. My leg is much better. Whatever you gave me did the trick.”

“What happened? How long was I out?” she asks, confused. She can hear rain falling outside the cave. It’s light enough that she can see him, so it must be daytime.

“I’m not sure. I woke up yesterday evening to find you in a very scary pool of blood. It’s morning now. You slept all the way through.”

Blood. She remembers now, touching her forehead where Ygritte cut her. Her fingers run across a bandage instead. “I took care of it,” he tells her by way of explanation.

“Thank you.”

He smiles that self-deprecating smile of his. “Just returning the favor. You saved my life. Figured it was the least I could do.”

“You saved my life first,” she argues, and he snorts.

“I didn’t know we were keeping score.” He pinches his brow in amused thought. “You know, I think we’re playing these games all wrong.”

She manages a smile, lifting a hand to his cheek. He catches it and presses a kiss to her palm. Her breath hitches. He’s being unusually soft with her, despite the fact that she drugged him and did the very thing he asked her not to do; she must have given him quite the fright. “You called me Dany,” she says, the endearment finally registering with her.

He turns sheepish. “I guess that was a little presumptuous. Should I not?”

“No. I like it.” Her eyes feel heavy again, and she blinks, fighting to keep them open. “Why did you do it?”

“What? Call you Dany?”

“No. Why did you save me?”

Jon frowns. “What do you mean?”

“The first time. When we were kids. With the bread.”

His expression smooths in understanding. “You remember that?”

“Of course, I do. You have no idea what that meant to me. You saved me and my family. And you didn’t even know me then.” Her fingers tighten around his. “Why did you do that?”

He looks equal parts embarrassed and amused. “Why? You know why.” She shakes her head, and he sighs. “Tyrion said you’d take a lot of convincing.”

“What does that mean? What about Tyrion?”

He just changes the subject. “Nothing. What happened at the cornucopia? I saw Ygritte in the sky last night.”

She studies his reaction. “Does that bother you?”

Lifting his eyebrows, he touches her bandage. “Not if she did this to you. Did you kill her?”

She’s too tired to keep needling him. “No. Grey did. She had me, and he saved me.”

His expression turns astonished. “Wait. He _saved_ you?”

At the memory, tears burn in her nose, and she blinks rapidly. “Yes. For Missandei. Because of what I did for her. She was my ally. My friend. I tried to save her. But I couldn’t...” She stops and makes herself take a steadying breath. She’s almost scared to ask. “Was...was Grey in the sky, too?”

Still amazed, Jon shakes his head. “No. There’s been no one since Ygritte.”

“So, there’s five of us left. I’m sure Joffrey went after Grey.”

“Maybe they’ll take care of each other so we don’t have to,” he says humorlessly. Dany doesn’t want to think about it. She doesn’t want Grey to die. She doesn’t want _anyone_ to die.

“Have you eaten?” she asks, eager to talk about something that won’t make her cry.

“What I could find. Which wasn’t much. I woke up hungry.”

“That’s good. Your appetite is back.”

Contrite, he shakes his head. “I should have been more careful. That food probably needed to last us a while.”

“It’s OK. I can go hunting for us once it stops raining,” she promises, closing her eyes.

“Not too soon,” he says gently. “Just rest for now. Let me take care of you this time. OK?”

Dany only nods, exhausted. Before she falls asleep, she thinks she feels his lips on her forehead, his hand stroking her hair.

* * *

When she awakes in the evening, she feels better. Jon helps her sit up; thankfully, the wooziness from her blood loss has eased. It’s still raining, and from the sounds of it, it’s a torrential downpour. Some rivulets of water trickle into the cave through cracks in the walls, but he’s spread out the plastic sheet from her backpack, positioning it to help shield them from the worst of the leaks. He’s also turned on the flashlight and pointed it at the ceiling, providing them some light in the growing dimness.

“There’s one good thing about the rain,” Jon says, handing her a bottle of water. “Can just stick the bottle outside to fill up instead of going down to the river.”

Funny that the Gamemakers choose now to be generous with the rain, but she supposes that’s what they want; her and Jon, trapped together for their entertainment. Regardless, she’s grateful for the reprieve. “Guess I won’t be able to do any hunting until this is over,” Dany says, slowly picking over the roots he gives her to eat.

“That was one good thing about being with the Careers,” he says, almost wistfully. “All the food you could want. Obviously, I won’t be able to help you much when it comes to hunting.”

“You can cook whatever I kill.” It’s getting cold, so she shifts to sit next to him for shared warmth. They lean against the cave wall side by side.

“Not worried about alerting Joffrey to our position anymore?” he asks.

She shakes her head, swallowing the food in her mouth. “He’s one against two now. I don’t think he’ll be eager to track us down. He has to figure you’ve recovered.”

“And the others?”

Dany mulls it over. “Grey won’t leave that field unless he’s forced out. And Margaery…” She wrinkles her nose. “I can’t figure her out. She’s smart, though. I don’t think she’ll come hunting for us. She’ll think of some other way to beat us.”

“If Joffrey doesn’t get to her first,” Jon says ominously. She doesn’t say anything, and they sit in silence, listening to the rain. Then Jon’s stomach growls, ruining the mood, and they laugh.

“You know, Tyrion could help us out by sending some food if he wanted to,” he gripes.

She thinks about the last time Tyrion helped them out and smiles mischievously. “He probably used up a lot of resources helping me knock you out.”

Scowling, he looks at her askance. “Aye, don’t think I’ve forgotten about that. Don’t ever try something like that again.”

“And what if I do? What are you going to do about it?” she jests playfully, but his expression doesn’t change. There’s real anger in his eyes, though he doesn’t look at her, instead glaring at the wall opposite them.

“I’m serious, Dany. Don’t. Don’t die for me, OK? You won’t be doing me any favors.”

She frowns. “Maybe I didn’t do it for you. Maybe I did it for me,” she says, growing incensed at his obstinance, at his complete disregard for _her_ feelings. “Maybe—maybe I don’t want to think about...about what it would be like winning this thing without you. Maybe I…” She clamps her mouth shut, the intensity of her feelings, this moment, becoming too much. And knowing there are cameras on them, people watching. It’s too much. She doesn’t want to think about Jon dying. She doesn’t want to think about losing him.

He turns his head toward her, watching her closely. “Maybe what?” he asks quietly, but she shakes her head, looking away, teeth digging into her bottom lip. His hand on her cheek turns her face back to his. “Say it,” he urges, a desperate edge to his voice.

“I can’t,” she says weakly, her heart racing. Her gaze flickers around the cave, conscious of the cameras.

“That’s OK,” he murmurs. His mouth is so close to hers. Her lips part. “I’ll just have to use my imagination then.”

This time when he kisses her, his lips are no longer hot and dry. Fingers quivering, she touches his hand on her cheek, then moves it to his cheek, mirroring his actions. She’s never done this before—not like this—but it seems he has, the way he opens her lips wider with his own, touching his tongue to hers. Tentatively at first, then more boldly, when he feels her responding, however shyly. He kisses her deeply, and the trembling spreads all over, from her fingertips down to her knees. She makes an embarrassing sound of pleasure in the back of her throat; he tries to pull away, but she won’t let him, clinging to him tightly. Now she’s the one kissing him, a growing hunger to the press of their mouths, the slant of their lips, tongues hot and searching.

Gently, Jon lowers her to the sleeping bag, leaning over her as they kiss. She doesn’t know how much time they spend like that, but it’s long enough that a persistent ache settles between her thighs, the needy kind of ache she’s only very rarely been able to relieve by her own hand. There’s a tenderness in her breasts, a wetness blooming, and it is pure, sweet agony.

Arching into him, she feels that conspicuous bulge on her hip and turns into him. “Jon,” she gasps, whines, truthfully, rubbing against him, desperate for that release just out of her reach. Abruptly, he pulls away, his breathing labored. She tries to follow his mouth, but he shakes his head, hiding his face against hers, mouth at her ear.

“I have to stop,” he rasps lowly so only she can hear, his breath hot and moist. The pleading admonishment punctures her lustful haze, and just like that, their surroundings come into sharp clarity. Her face flames in embarrassment, and she nods, trying to hide her face against his, too. Understanding, Jon brings his arm up around her head to shield her, cocooning them both in a little bubble of privacy as they collect themselves.

They lie like that, face to face in the space he created, breathing heavily. Soon, he settles beside her, lowering his arm, and she turns into him fully. They stare at each other, expressions open and raw. She thinks she should feel ashamed about what they just did, knowing her family and Daario are watching, and she does, a little, but with the way he’s looking at her, she can’t regret it.

“Jon,” she starts quietly, breaching the silence. “In King’s Landing. In the interview. You said you’ve had a crush on me forever. What did you mean?”

He lets out a hoarse, awkward laugh. “I meant just that. I’ve liked you since the first day of school.”

Bewildered, she shakes her head in awe. “The first day? Of grade school?”

“Aye.” He licks his lips shiny, and she wants to reach out and touch them, taste them, but she refrains. “I remember the first time I ever saw you. We were in the school yard. My uncle was walking me and Robb to our first class. That’s where I saw you. You were hard to miss, honestly.” He reaches out, pulling her braid over her shoulder to run his fingers over the plait. “You had white hair and purple eyes. I’d never seen anyone like you before. I remember I looked at my uncle and said, ‘Look. She’s a heart tree spirit.’”

Inexplicably giddy, Dany laughs. “You did not.”

“I swear to the gods. With the hair and the eyes, I thought you must have come from a heart tree. There was no way you could be real. But then my uncle crouched down next to me and told me, ‘That’s Daenerys Targaryen. Before she died, your mother fell in love with her brother, Rhaegar.’”

She falls quiet as he continues, “And I said, ‘Why would she do something like that?’ And Uncle Ned just kind of looked at me sadly and said, ‘Because she never heard anyone else sing like him before. She always said he sang with the voice of the old gods.’”

“He did,” Dany murmurs, lost in her memory of her brother.

“That first day in class, the teacher asked if anyone wanted to sing the song of the North. You were the only one who volunteered. Then you opened your mouth to sing, and just like that—” With a huff, he shakes his head. “I knew I was doomed to fall in love with a Targaryen, just like my mother.”

Her vision blurs, and she’s confused to find her eyes wet. She’s speechless, overcome with happiness and a strange sort of sadness. “You have a...remarkable memory,” she whispers.

He smiles wryly. “I remember everything about you. You’re the one who wasn’t paying attention.”

“I am now.”

He casts his gaze around pointedly. “Well, I don’t have much competition here.”

She swallows thickly. “You don’t have much competition anywhere,” she says honestly then leans forward and kisses him again, the cameras and the audience be damned—

A loud clatter outside startles them apart. Dany has reached for her bow and notched an arrow before she’s even had time to think about it, pointing it at the cave entrance. Nothing happens. After a moment, she and Jon look at each other. Knife in hand, he crawls to the entrance and sticks his head outside. Then he lets out a whoop of excitement and crawls outside, returning drenched in rain and holding up a parachute. The container it’s attached to is large, and they tear into it eagerly.

Inside is a lavish feast of rolls, creamy goat cheese, apples and a tureen of hearty stew, packed with meat and vegetables, complete with bowls and utensils.

Jon laughs. “I guess Tyrion finally got tired of watching us starve.”

“Guess so,” she murmurs. But she remembers the broth, the message he sent her before. This time, the message is just as clear: _Yes,_ that's _the kind of story I need._

* * *

By morning the rain has finally stopped. They eat most of what’s left of the extravagant meal Tyrion sent them; there’s no point rationing it when Dany can hunt now.

She makes herself eat even though her appetite is gone. As they were eating the meal the night before, the anthem played, and it was then they’d discovered that Grey was dead. A cannon must have gone off while it was storming, drowning out the sound of it.

It’s strange being so sad about his death. She didn’t know him, but still his kindness, his mercy, touched her. It doesn’t seem fair that Joffrey should prevail against someone like Grey. None of this is fair.

As if he can sense her mood, Jon offers to go to the river to catch some fish while she stays in the cave, but she declines. Hunting might take her mind off things, make her feel useful again. Around noon, after filling up their water bottles, they leave the safety of their cave. They hike away from the ravine and into the woods where the game is more plentiful.

After a while, Dany realizes this isn’t going to work. Jon is too loud.

“Can you walk a little more lightly?” she asks.

He looks surprised at her request. “I thought I was. Sorry. I’ll be quieter.”

His footsteps improve marginally, but even then she knows she won’t find any game with him at her heels. She wishes she could post up in a tree and wait for game to pass by, but she can’t leave Jon on the ground, and it’s not likely she can get him high up enough in a tree with her.

Just as she’s about to suggest they both take off their shoes, Jon speaks. “Let’s split up. I know I’m chasing the game away.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Split up?” The thought makes her nervous. “What are you going to do?”

He shrugs. “Show me some plants to gather. That way I can do something useful while you hunt.”

“What if Joffrey shows up?”

He rolls his eyes. “I handled him before, didn’t I?”

She gives him an arch look. “And how did that turn out?”

That earns her a scowl. “Just show me what’s edible around here and go.” Reluctantly, she shows him some roots to dig, then teaches him the same four-note whistle Missandei taught her, so they know the other is nearby. As they separate, he calls to her, “Don’t go far in case you need help.”

Suppressing a laugh, she sets off on her own. She’s worried about him, but he has a knife, at least.

Eventually, without Jon scaring off all the animals, Dany tracks down and kills a rabbit. She decides it’ll be enough; she’s been gone from Jon too long, and besides, if they need more food, she knows what they need to do now to get some from Tyrion. She’s almost excited at the prospect.

As she treks back to the place where she left Jon, she whistles their signal. She waits for a response, but it doesn’t come. A slick slide of dread settles in her stomach, and she whistles again. Still no response.

Immediately, she takes off running. When she reaches their meeting spot, all she sees is his backpack and the sheet of plastic he laid out, a pile of roots and berries on top.

“Jon!” she calls out, panicked. She hears a sound behind her and whirls around, bow raised. At the last second she sees his face and jerks her bow to the side before she releases the arrow. It sticks in a tree behind him, making him jump. The berries in his hand go flying.

“Seven hells, Dany!” he yells.

“Where were you!” she shouts, her nerves absolutely frayed. “I whistled, and you didn’t answer! I was worried!”

“So you try to shoot me?” he retorts, exasperated, spinning around to yank her arrow out of the tree. “Gods. I was by the stream. I guess it’s too loud to hear the whistle there.”

She shakes her head. “You were supposed to stay in this area so I could find you easily! I thought Joffrey had gotten you!”

“I’m fine,” he assures her. Realizing how spooked she is, he hugs her and finds her shaking. He frowns. “Dany?”

She pushes away from him, not sure why she’s so upset. Maybe because the last time someone didn’t answer her whistle, they ended up dead. “Don’t do that again. You have to stay where you say you’re going to be and respond to the signal!”

Wide-eyed, he holds up his hands. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry.”

Turning away from him, Dany drops to her knees on the plastic to put down the rabbit. She notices the backpack is open, and she digs through it. Some of their food is missing. “Did you eat without me?” she demands, and he looks at her, confused.

“No. I was gathering food.”

“Then who ate the cheese?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe a squirrel got to it.”

She glares at him. “Because you left the bag open!”

He rolls his eyes, frustrated by her attempts to pick a fight. “No, I definitely didn’t.”

“So a squirrel figured out how to unzip a backpack?”

“Maybe it was a smart squirrel,” he says sarcastically, and she huffs, though she knows she’s being unreasonable. She looks at the berries on the sheet. They’re deep purple, and she doesn’t immediately recognize them. Her eyes narrow.

“Jon, where did you find these berries?” she asks abruptly.

“What? Down by the river.”

She picks one up to examine it. A memory comes back to her then. _Not these, Dany,_ Rhaegar told her once on a trip in the wolfwoods. _Never eat these. They’re called Stranglers, and they’ll kill you in a minute._

Suddenly, a cannon fires. Terrified, she spins around, certain she’ll find Jon dead on the ground, but he widens his eyes at her, going stock still. A moment later, they see a hovercraft appear over the treetops, some fifty yards away. Margaery’s body is lifted into the air.

Immediately, Jon pulls her off the ground and shoves her toward a tree. “Climb. Now. Joffrey will be here soon.”

But Dany understands before he does. She shakes her head, eerily calm. “No. She’s your kill, not Joffrey’s,” she says.

He looks at her, bewildered. “How? I haven’t seen her since training.”

She holds out the berry in her palm. “These. They’re incredibly toxic for humans. She ate them while you were at the stream. And the cheese.”

Blinking slowly, he shakes his head in amazement. “How did she even find us? I guess because of me. Because of how loud I was being. I’m sorry.”

“She’s smart, Jon. She could have been a greater threat than Joffrey, honestly. If she hadn’t gotten so hungry. She probably figured these were safe to eat if you were planning to eat them. Her hunger made her reckless.”

“And my ignorance,” he says dully. “Doesn’t seem fair somehow. We could have been dead, too. If she hadn’t eaten them first. No—that’s not true. You recognized them.”

She nods. “We have them in the woods at home. They’re called Stranglers. They make it so you can’t breathe.”

He shudders and leans down to scoop up the rest. “I’ll get rid of them.”

Dany stops him. “No, wait. Maybe we can use them. I mean, if Margaery’s hungry enough to be fooled, Joffrey might be, too.” She riffles through the backpack until she finds the leather pouch she took from Ramsay, and puts the berries inside, securing it to her belt.

“Should we go back to the cave? Joffrey will know where we are now.”

She thinks it over. “No. Let’s make a fire and cook the rabbit here.”

“You’re ready to face him?” he asks.

“Now’s a good enough time as any,” she says with a shrug. Only one person stands between them and home now. She would rather just get it over with if they can.

Jon gets a fire going in no time while Dany skins the rabbit. They cook and eat it, but Joffrey doesn’t show. The sun is getting low in the sky. “What now?” Jon asks with a frown.

“I guess we go back to the cave and try to get a good night’s sleep. See what tomorrow brings.”

* * *

The night passes without event, but in the morning, they make an interesting discovery: The river by their cave is empty and bone-dry, as if it was drained overnight.

“Looks like the Gamemakers are trying to force a confrontation today,” Jon says solemnly, staring at the empty river bed.

“Looks like,” she agrees.

“The lake. That’s probably where they want us to go.” Out in the open, the fight’s bound to be a good show.

Dany turns to him. “Should we wait or go now?”

“Probably better to go now. While we’re rested and there’s enough light out. I’m ready to end this thing.”

“Two against one,” she says with more confidence than she feels. “Should be a piece of cake.”

“Next time we eat, it’ll be in King’s Landing,” he tells her. Unbidden, she reaches her arms out, and he pulls her into his embrace, his chin resting on her head. “We can do this.”

They take their time hiking through the woods, and when they reach the lake, It’s late afternoon. Joffrey is nowhere in sight. The cornucopia still sits in the middle of the clearing. With her bow armed, Dany checks around it and inside its mouth, just to make sure he’s not hiding inside it like Margaery did. Her search turns up nothing.

“Let’s go wait by the lake,” Jon suggests. Setting their supplies down, they sit on the shore, their backs to each other so they can watch their surroundings and keep an eye out for him. The sun starts to set, and there’s still no sign of Joffrey. The approach of dusk makes Dany nervous. She doesn’t want to face him at night. She’s just about to suggest they head for cover when they hear a disturbance in the distance. They both turn to the woods, where they see Joffrey, sprinting full-speed toward them.

Dany leaps to her feet, draws the bow back and releases an arrow. To her dismay, it bounces off his chest harmlessly. “He has some kind of armor!” she yells at Jon.

“Shoot for his eye!” he says at her side, but before she has time to notch another arrow, something emerges from the woods behind Joffrey, hot on his heels. Multiple somethings.

Aghast, Jon gasps. “Oh fucking hell, what are those?”

Her heart stops. They’re massive beasts, loping easily on all fours. They look like wolves, but they’re big, much bigger than any wolves she’s ever seen in the North. “Direwolves,” she says. Mutts manufactured by the Gamemakers. She’s only seen them once before, in another games. Which means they won’t be easy to kill. Her arrows are largely useless against them; by her count, she doesn’t have enough of them, anyway.

Joffrey blows past them—weaponless, she realizes, so she doesn’t waste another arrow on him. They’re not his target, anyway; he’s heading for the cornucopia.

A second look at the direwolves, and Dany follows him, knowing he has the right idea; they need to get to higher ground. “The horn!” she yells at Jon, who follows when she breaks into a run.

She can hear the howls and snarls of the direwolves behind them as they quickly close in. Joffrey reaches the cornucopia and scales it easily, disappearing over the top. Dany reaches it next, jumping for a handhold, but she remembers Jon and spins around. His bad leg is slowing him down; the direwolves are almost on top of him. She fires an arrow at the nearest one, but it only slows the beast briefly.

“Go! Climb!” he yells at her. Dany manages to find a foothold and drags herself over the top. She draws an arrow to defend herself from Joffrey, but he’s some feet away, sprawled on his back as he gasps for air. Behind her, she hears a cry and spins around, peering over the side to find Jon hanging from the edge with one hand. The direwolves are jumping and snapping their large teeth at him. She fires the notched arrow down one’s gaping throat, and it collapses to the ground.

She grabs Jon’s hand and pulls, but she feels a yank, the force flattening her to her belly. She holds on tight as Jon lets out another cry. She can see that one of the direwolves, a white one with blood-red eyes, has its jaws locked around his calf. “Your knife! Kill it!” she screams at him, pulling as hard as she can on his arm. He reaches down and jams his knife into the beast’s eyes. It screeches and releases him, and Dany is able to drag him up over the side with his help. He rolls onto his side in agony, blood leaking from the puncture wounds in his calf. Another direwolf jumps high enough to reach the edge of the horn, and Dany fires an arrow at it, piercing its eye. It lets out a shrill cry, like a kicked dog, and disappears over the side.

Jon is suddenly jerked from her side, and she reaches for him, certain another direwolf has pulled him back over the side, but Joffrey stands over her, Jon pinned in a headlock, cutting off his air. He's lost his knife, the weapon lying uselessly at his feet. He claws at Joffrey’s arm, but his face is quickly turning red from the lack of oxygen. Blood weeps freely from his leg.

Dany jumps to her feet, her arrow aimed at Joffrey’s head, but he laughs cruelly. “Shoot me, and we both go down,” he sneers, his feet inching precariously close to the edge.

As if on command somehow, the direwolves below fall quiet. They simply pace the horn in wait, snarling impatiently, while Dany and Joffrey face off. This is the showdown the Gamemakers want, after all. Her muscles strain, the string of her bow pulled taut. Sweat stings her eyes, and she knows she doesn’t have much time to make a decision. Jon's lips are turning purple, and he’ll lose consciousness any moment. Once that happens, Joffrey will be able to use his body as a weapon against her. He seems to realize this, too, that it’s only a matter of time until he’s won. His thin lips spread in a nasty, triumphant smile.

She doesn’t know what to do; despair and indecision have rendered her paralyzed.

Weakly, Jon lifts his hand, but instead of trying to wrestle Joffrey’s arm free, he draws a deliberate X on the back of Joffrey’s hand at his neck. Understanding hits her a split second before it does Joffrey. His face falls as she releases the string, and her arrowhead burrows into his hand before he can even make a move. With a howl of pain, he reflexively releases Jon, who slams back against him, sending the other boy over the edge. Dany jumps forward to grab Jon’s jacket, stopping him from going over the side with Joffrey, who hits the ground with a hard thud.

The direwolves swarm him in an instant. He screams, and Dany clings to Jon tightly, who's still panting for air. He wraps his arms around her, both of them shaking violently. They wait for a cannon, but it doesn’t come.

Somehow, Joffrey is still alive. He fights off the direwolves and manages to get to his feet, grunting as they circle and pounce. She doesn’t understand how he can still be alive until she remembers the armor that deflected her arrow.

Jon sags in her arms suddenly, and she drops to her knees with him. “Jon?” she asks. He’s pale, trembling uncontrollably, and she remembers his leg. The metal surface under them is slick with his blood. All their supplies are by the lake, out of reach. Desperate, she rips off her jacket and strips off her shirt before zipping herself back into her jacket then wraps her shirt around his calf, but it’s too much blood, and she knows it won’t be enough. She’s seen her mother do enough tourniquets to replicate one. Grabbing her last arrow, she sticks it in a knot she ties in her shirt, then twists it as tightly as she dares. He might lose his leg, but at least he’ll still be alive.

“Stay with me, Jon,” she begs, and he nods faintly. They hug each other again as Joffrey’s screams of rage give way to ones of pain. The direwolves are slowly winning, but his body armor is doing its job too well.

Night falls, and still the show drags on. Dany buries her face against Jon’s shoulder, trying to block out the sounds of Joffrey’s wails. “Why don’t they just kill him?” she asks, teeth chattering. The temperature has dropped drastically, and her jacket does little against the cold.

“You know why,” he whispers. Of course. This moment is the coup de grace of the entirety of the games.

It drags on and on, and she has to keep shaking Jon awake, shouting at him, afraid if he falls unconscious, he’ll never wake again. Joffrey’s moans of agony refuse to cease.

“Can’t you shoot him?” Jon asks her. “Put him out of his misery?”

Anguished, she looks at him. “My last arrow is in your tourniquet.”

His face is grim. “Then make it count.”

Hesitating briefly, she quickly pulls the arrow free and crawls to the edge of the horn. Jon holds onto her feet as she leans over the side, searching for Joffrey. The direwolves part slightly, affording her a brief glimpse; he’s just a raw hunk of meat at this point.

In one final act of mercy, she closes her eyes and fires the arrow. It finds its home in his skull. The cannon fires, finally, and Jon pulls her back onto the horn, grabbing her up in a hug.

“We won,” he says hollowly. There is no joy in the moment.

As if on cue, the direwolves depart, galloping away from the horn and disappearing into the woods for good. No hovercraft appears, either to take Joffrey’s body or to lift the two of them from the arena. There are no trumpets declaring their victory.

“What’s going on?” Dany wonders, searching the sky.

“Maybe we have to get away from the horn so they can retrieve the body,” Jon suggests.

She picks up his knife and hands it back to him, then, carefully, they climb down from the cornucopia, Dany helping Jon once she’s on the ground. Her shirt around his leg is soaked with his blood, and he leans on her as they walk to the lake. Finally, a hovercraft appears to retrieve what’s left of Joffrey’s body, then it’s gone.

Still, nothing happens.

“What are they waiting for?” Jon asks, his voice faint. He’s losing blood too rapidly; she knows she needs to re-tie his tourniquet. Hastily, she hunts down one of her arrows, the one that had bounced off Joffrey’s armor, and picks it up to fit back into Jon’s tourniquet.

Just then Robert Baratheon’s voice booms through the arena.

“Attention, tributes! Unfortunately, the earlier revision has been revoked. A closer examination of the rule book has revealed that only one winner may be allowed,” he declares. “Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. GHOST. But just think of them not as the real direwolves we know, just created in a lab.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite winning the games, Dany and Jon realize they still have a part to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the last chapter. Whoa. I think this counts as my first completed multi-chapter Jonerys fic. Thank you so much for taking this journey with me! I appreciate all the comments and kind words.
> 
> If you're not familiar with The Hunger Games, or even if you are, I should note the first book ends on a titch of a cliffhanger, no real closure, obviously, since it's the beginning of a trilogy. But I have no plans to remix this whole series, so I had to find a way to give Jon and Dany a more satisfying ending here; as satisfying as a story like this could be, in any case (minus the whole revolution and war, of course). With that in mind, I tried to pull on some elements of Catching Fire (the second book). It's by no means a happily ever after, but...I think it sets them up to find some sort of happiness together. 
> 
> Thank you to aliciutza for beta'ing this whole fic, and also making all the gorgeous moodboards for it, including the one in this chapter!

* * *

Robert Baratheon’s voice cuts out, and the arena goes silent. No bird song, no breeze. Just this moment, and this awful truth. Dany stares at Jon as she tries to process the news.

Of course. Of course, the Gamemakers would do this. She should have known this is the ending they wanted, the most dramatic showdown in the history of the games. Of course, she and Jon couldn’t both win; it would never be as simple as that. And still, she fell for it, like a damn fool.

But not Jon, though. Of course not. He’d known, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he tried to warn her? _Not as strange as two victors. What are the odds?_

“I guess it’s really not that surprising,” Jon says finally. He sounds resigned, his voice ragged. He begins to limp toward her, lifting his hand with the knife.

Without thinking, she raises her bow, the arrow loaded and pointed at his heart, all within the blink of an eye. He lifts his eyebrows in surprise; that’s when she sees the knife has already left his hand, arcing through the air to land in the lake with a small splash. Ashamed, horrified, she immediately drops her bow.

“No,” he tells her, and when he reaches her, he lifts her bow for her, placing the arrow tip against his heart. “Do it, Dany. I want you to.”

She looks at him, aghast. “ _No_. I can’t do it. I won’t!”

“You have to. You know if you don’t, they’ll send those mutts for us again,” he pleads. “I don’t want to die like that, like Joffrey.”

Angrily, she thrusts the bow and arrow into his chest, making him grab them. ”Then you do it! You shoot me, and you go home, and you live with it!” she yells at him, tears stinging her eyes.

He tosses the weapon aside. “You know I can’t do that,” he says gruffly. Shaking his head, he bends over and rips the bloody shirt away from his leg. “Fine. I’ll make it easy for you.”

“No! You’re not going to kill yourself, dammit!” She drops to her knees and desperately tries to fix his tourniquet. “You’re not leaving me here alone, Jon.” Her voice breaks, and she knows it’s true; if he dies, she’ll never go home again, not truly. She’ll be stuck in this miserable place forever, trying to think her way out.

“Dany, please. It’s what I want.” He brings her to her feet and holds her by her arms. Tears swim in her eyes, clouding her vision, and when she blinks them away, they slip down her cheeks. She can’t believe this is what it’s come to: Jon, begging her to kill him. “We both know they have to have a victor. It can’t be both of us. I want it to be you. It should be you. There’s nothing for me back home.” He swallows hard, face twisted in pain. “Not...not without you. But people _need_ you. Your family needs you. Just...please, take it. For me.”

Already, she’s shaking her head, but then she stops abruptly. _They have to have a victor_. He’s right. The Crown needs a victor. Otherwise, the whole point of the games would be lost, and this whole thing would blow up in the Gamemakers’ faces. If they failed to deliver a victory, the Crown would surely make them pay for it.

If she and Jon _both_ died...or, rather, the Gamemakers _thought_ they both were to die...

Quickly, she fumbles for the pouch at her belt, pulling out a handful of the Stranglers. Misunderstanding her intention, Jon clamps his hand around hers to stop her. “No! I won’t let you.”

She looks at him imploringly. “Trust me,” she whispers, her lips barely moving. He falters, wary eyes searching her face. After a moment, he releases her hand, reluctant. Louder this time, she says, “I won’t lose you, Jon.”

Grabbing his hand, she turns it over and drops a few of the berries in his palm. “On the count of three?” she says, meeting his stormy gaze. He jerks his chin in acquiescence.

“Together?” he asks, and she nods, drawing closer to him.

“Together.”

Briefly, he touches her face, then he kisses her, once. A goodbye kiss for the cameras. Still, she imagines she can taste the fear on his lips. Or maybe it's her own.

Pulling away, Dany takes a deep breath. “One.” Gods, she hopes she’s right. “Two.” There’s no turning back now. “Three!” Simultaneously, they both lift their hands to their mouths. The berries have just hit her tongue when Robert Baratheon’s voice cuts in, frantic and booming.

“Wait, stop! Stop, Seven damn you, stop!” The trumpets begin to blare, and the familiar victory song begins. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the victors of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow, the tributes of the North!”

Immediately, she and Jon spit the berries out of their mouths, and he drags her to the lake where they drop to their knees and hurriedly flush their mouths out with water. Then he grabs her in an embrace again. “You didn’t swallow any?” he demands, and she shakes her head, almost faint with disbelief.

It worked. They did it. They won.

Jon pulls his head back to press his forehead to hers. “You’re crazy,” he says, and she can barely hear him over the sound of the triumphant music playing. “You’re a crazy, fucking genius.”

A hovercraft appears overhead, lowering a ladder to them. She has to help him to his feet, and he staggers slightly, his face pale. He’s lost too much blood; she’s afraid he won’t be able to hold on to the ladder, but thankfully it freezes them in place once they both step onto the first rung. Still, she holds on to him as they’re lifted into the sky, watching in horror as his eyes gradually roll back into his head and he loses consciousness.

The moment they’re inside the hovercraft, the current in the ladder unfreezes them, and Jon slumps limplessly to the ground. “Jon!” she cries, but doctors swarm them, pulling him from her arms. She follows as they load him on a stretcher and rush him to a separate bay to begin operating on his leg. They hook him up to machines, inserting IVs and tubes into his arms and mouth

For a moment, she feels like she’s back in the games; for a moment, she forgets they’re trying to help him. She lunges toward him, but someone catches her and shoves her out of the operating area, a glass partition sealing shut between them. Panicked, she throws herself at the glass, pounding and screaming in vain as they get to work, ignoring her completely. Eventually, someone comes up behind her to jab a needle into her neck, and everything goes sideways, dimming to black.

* * *

When she awakes, everything is white. She squints against the harshness, blinking until her eyes no longer sting. It takes her a moment to realize she’s staring at a ceiling of fluorescent lights. She looks down; she’s lying prostrate in a bed, with several tubes hooked into her arms and snaking outward to bags of fluid dangling from IV stands. She’s naked under the single, thin sheet neatly tucked around her chest. From a quick scan of the room, there are no doors or windows that she can see. Slowly, she realizes her arms and legs are restrained; she can’t move them. There are straps holding her wrists and ankles to the bed. Her breathing quickens, and she begins to panic, fighting the restraints, writhing until she’s struggling like a trapped prey. Machines begin to beep, increasing in volume and frequency, and something is released into her IVs, quickly flowing into her veins, then she’s unconscious again.

She doesn’t know how many times this happens—her waking, panicking, passing out—until she finally wakes to find she’s no longer restrained. The IVs are gone, too. She’s been dressed in a hospital gown beneath the sheet. Next to her is a tray of food: a paper cup of water and a small bowl of pudding.

Warily, she sits up. It takes more effort than it should, her muscles screaming in protest. She wonders how long she’s been out; it’s been a few days, at least, for her body to feel so weak already. She reaches for the water and is momentarily distracted; her hands are clean, smooth, the dirt and blood wiped away, all the old burns and scrapes completely gone. Her skin looks brand new. She touches her forehead; it’s smooth as well, no bandage, not a single trace of the wound Ygritte left her. To be sure, she throws aside the sheet to look at her leg; the burn on her calf is completely healed as well, not an inch of scar tissue left behind.

Of course, she thinks; they’ve made her over in anticipation of her next TV appearance, the presentation of the victors. The Gamemakers will want her to look brand new, all signs of the violence and trauma inflicted on her in the games wiped away. A new slate for the Crown. Somewhere, Melisandre is finalizing the wardrobe for her final appearance. Tyrion and Varys will be preparing for the final interview and the Victory Banquet with King Tywin. And back home, everyone will be making arrangements for the homecoming celebration. It will be a lot for them to prepare; Winterfell hasn’t had a victor in ages, and now they have two to welcome back.

 _Home_ , she thinks with growing excitement. She’ll get to see her family again. Her mother, Rhaenys, and Daario. And Jon—

Her excitement fades. What happened to Jon? Is he alive? Surely, he must be, she tells herself. They wouldn’t let him win the games just to let him die in their hands. That wouldn’t reflect well on them either.

She’s determined to find him, though, to see for herself. She won’t rest easy until she knows, until she’s in his arms again.

First things first: She turns to the tray at her bedside and grabs the water, sips it; her mouth tastes like something died in it, but she’s so thirsty, she drinks the water in two gulps. Next, she eats the bland vanilla pudding, shoveling it into her mouth with the provided spoon. After the games, it seems a paltry offering for a victor, but even the small amount of pudding is too much for her to finish. Her stomach cramps, feeling uncomfortably full and bloated. Pushing the tray aside, Dany slides out of the bed. Her legs are weak, knees shaking, but she paces around the room for a moment, slowly at first, until she feels stronger. Then she walks along the perimeter of the room, feeling along the walls until she finds a panel and what looks like the seam of a door; she pushes a button, and the door disappears into the wall.

She steps into an empty, white hallway, lined by doors. Jon must be behind one of them. She begins walking, searching the wall for buttons or handles. Desperate, she calls out for him. “Jon!”

In answer, she hears her own name, but it’s not Jon’s voice. Turning around, she sees her team hurrying down the hallway toward her: Tyrion, Varys and Melisandre.

To her surprise, tears spring to her eyes. She never thought she would be so relieved to see them. Her feet take her to them of their own accord. Perhaps no one is more surprised than Tyrion is when she throws herself at him first, grabbing him into a hug.

He laughs. “Nice to see you, too.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, and he shakes his head.

“It was all you. And the boy.”

“Where is he?” she asks, almost fearful. “He’s OK, right? He’s alive?

Tyrion waves her off. “He’s fine. Don’t worry. He’s resting still, but he’s alive and well, just like you.”

She sags in relief, releasing her mentor to take a step back. “Can I see him?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet, I’m afraid. They want to do your reunion on air.”

“Oh.” She deflates slightly. “I guess that makes sense.”

She hugs Varys then Melisandre. “I knew I was right to bet on you,” Melisandre says with a mysterious smile. She smooths Dany’s hair back, which has been brushed and freed from its braid. “Girl on fire.”

“Go with Mel now,” Tyrion tells Dany. “You have to get ready for the interview now.”

She and Melisandre take an elevator up. When the doors open, Dany sees they’re on their old floor in the Training Center; the hospital must have been on the bottom floor, or underground. Inside their apartment, the old prep team greets her. Kinvara must be with Jon, getting him ready for their reunion. Her stomach swirls with butterflies as the prep team takes her to her room in their apartment, directing her into a shower. Once she’s clean of that antiseptic smell of the hospital, they do her hair and makeup, and Melisandre reappears with a dress. It’s simple and gauzy, and surprisingly unassuming, compared to the previous outfits Melisandre has dressed her in. As she slips it on, Dany touches the extra padding at her breasts and frowns.

Eyebrow arching, Melisandre smiles knowingly. “The Gamemakers wanted to surgically alter you. Enhance your natural attributes. It’s what they do for a lot of the victors. Tyrion wouldn’t hear of it, however. He fought them tooth and nail. This was the compromise.”

Dany is grateful for him, grateful that he’s still fighting for her.

Melisandre helps her into simple leather sandals and guides her to a mirror to view the finished product. Dany is surprised by her reflection. Since arriving in King’s Landing, she’s never seen herself look so understated—even their look for the tribute parade required more makeup and affect than this. This time, her hair is left loose and wavy, and the makeup on her face appears almost nonexistent.

She looks young. Like the 16-year-old girl that she is. Innocent. Harmless.

Not at all like someone who’s killed to get here.

“What do you think?” Melisandre asks quietly. Dany smooths her dress down in the front.

“It’s beautiful. Missing your usual flare, however,” she says with a bemused smile.

Melisandre’s eyes dance, saying more than her words: “I thought Jon would like this best.”

Somehow, Dany doesn’t think this is for Jon’s benefit. He’s seen her covered in blood and two weeks’ worth of dirt and grime. They’ve had to take turns peeing in front of each other (eyes politely averted). So who is it really for, then? The Gamemakers? The Crown? The audience?

She’s still playing the games, it would seem.

“One more thing.” Melisandre produces a pin from her pocket. Her family’s pin, the three-headed dragon. She fixes it to Dany’s bodice, just above her left breast. “For good luck. It seemed to help you in the arena, after all.”

Once she’s ready, Dany and Melisandre take the elevator down to the level where they did their first interviews with Oberyn Martell. That’s where the victor presentation and interview will take place, as well as her reunion with Jon.

Her stylist leads her under the stage to her own staging area, where she will rise up on a metal plate to be presented to a live audience—disturbing, really, just how similar it is to the start of the games. Melisandre leaves her there to wait, wishing her luck. To her right, Dany sees a makeshift wall; she wonders if Jon is on the other side. She reaches out a hand to touch it and jumps when someone grabs her other wrist.

“Easy,” Tyrion says behind her, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “It’s just me.” He gives her a onceover. “Nice outfit.”

Something in his tone makes her suspicious. “What’s wrong with it?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. How about a hug for good measure?” She leans toward him, but he shakes his head and gives her a tight smile. “Come down here to my level, won’t you? So I can give you a proper hug.”

Eyeing him strangely, she crouches so he can embrace her. His arms lock around her shoulders, holding her close, and he immediately begins whispering in her ear. “You’re in trouble. The king didn’t like your little stunt with the berries. You made the Crown look stupid, and that’s one thing he won’t stand for.”

She goes cold all over, but somehow she manages a strained laugh, as if he’s just told her some funny joke, in case anyone is watching their exchange. “What do I do?” she whispers through a gritted smile.

“You gotta make them believe you were so madly in love that you weren’t responsible for your actions in the arena.” He pulls back and pretends to adjust the pin on her dress. “Got it?”

“What about Jon? Did you tell him?” she asks.

“Don’t need to. Like you, he’s never needed much coaching from me.” He smiles at her and squeezes her hand. “See you on stage.”

He leaves her to ruminate over his words, wondering why he thinks _she_ needs to be coached now. Icy, clammy fear grips her as she waits to be lifted onto the stage; it really is just like the moments before the start of the games, only now she has the feeling she’s entering a new level, with new dangers and threats. And all because of her stunt with the berries.

She hadn’t been trying to make the Crown look stupid! She only meant to keep her and Jon alive. She should have known they would retaliate, though. The Hunger Games is the Crown’s weapon, used to keep the regions under its heel. You’re not supposed to defeat it, turn it around on them. The Crown will act like it was in control the whole time, she guesses; as if the romance was their idea all along, down to the attempted double suicide. It’s a tale of love and tragedy, as old as time.

She just has to play along. Jon, too. And then maybe they can go home and never have to worry about any of this again.

The anthem begins to play. From beneath the stage, Dany can hear Oberyn greeting the audience. He starts by introducing the team behind the victors: first Melisandre and Kinvara, the ingénue stylists, followed by Varys, then finally Tyrion. For him, the crowd applauds loudly and for a long time. He’s certainly earned it, pulling off a first in the history of the games: bringing home two victors.

Suddenly, the plate moves under her feet, lifting her as a trap door overhead opens. For a moment, lights blind her, and the crowd’s cheers are deafening. Dazed, she looks to her right. Jon is only a few feet away from her, looking clean and healthy and so very much alive; she doesn’t even think, she just lunges for him, flinging herself into his arms as she lets out a sob. He staggers back but holds tight, and the crowd goes absolutely wild. His mouth finds hers, and then he’s kissing her, and it feels so good, so soothing, she doesn’t even care that the audience is privy to this moment.

Oberyn tries to interrupt, but Jon shoves him away, which the audience goes crazy over, cheering even louder. Finally, Tyrion breaks them up like a disgruntled chaperone, much to the crowd’s delight; they erupt in uproarious laughter. She and Jon sit down on a loveseat together next to the couch where their team waits. Oberyn takes the armchair on their other side. Twining her fingers with Jon’s, Dany is all but draped over his lap; she’s afraid if she lets go, he might disappear.

For the next three hours, they are forced to watch a condensed recap of the games. It’s horrible seeing it played back, and she goes all but catatonic during it, her face frozen as she tries to send her mind elsewhere, not wanting to relive every death. Every kill. Especially those at her hands. When they get to Missandei’s death, however, she breaks; Jon puts his arm around her, and she turns her head into his shoulder, unable to bear it.

Even before the rule change, the footage focuses an inordinate amount of attention on her and Jon; naturally, because they are the victors, but this cut really plays up their love story. Mostly thanks to Jon and his actions in the beginning of the games. It’s apparent to her now that everything he did was to protect her. She finally learns what he did to convince the Careers to let him join them: promising to help them track her down, then proving his worth in a wrestling match with Ramsay that he almost too easily wins. Even then, the camera catches the subtle shifts in his face that convey his worry for Dany, like when the Careers had her treed.

It’s not till the rule change is announced and she goes to look for him that her narrative shifts in this love story. At first, she was simply desperate to survive; now, she’s desperately trying to keep someone else alive.

The crowd reacts accordingly to the footage, cheering and swooning at the appropriate moments, especially—obnoxiously—in the more intimate ones in the cave. They gasp during the final fight with Joffrey and hold their breaths at the berries scene, as if they don’t already know how it plays out.

Then the footage ends, not with the announcement of their victory but with Dany pounding on the glass as the doctors desperately try to save Jon’s life. Then the anthem plays, and King Tywin walks out onto the stage. The crowd rises to their feet and cheers. In his hand, the king holds only one crown, but then he splits it apart, revealing two thin ringlets. Dany and Jon stand to receive the king’s congratulations.

He crowns first Jon then her, but he lingers before her. He seems to be sizing her up, his hard, pale-blue gaze flickering to her dragon pin. Her heart stops when he touches it. “What a lovely token,” he remarks coldly.

Her lips are numb as she speaks. “Thank you,” she says stiffly, finding it hard to force the words out over her pounding heart. “It belongs to my family.”

He says nothing more, holding her gaze briefly, before he turns away to shake Oberyn’s hand. He ignores Tyrion and the stylists completely, instead waving to the crowd. With that, the telecast ends, but not before Oberyn reminds them all to tune in tomorrow for an intimate interview with the victors.

Afterward, Dany and Jon are swept from the Tribute Training Center to the Red Keep for the Victory Banquet. There, they talk and mingle with special guests of the king, including his children, Prince Jaime and Princess Cersei, Crown officials, and sponsors who surpassed a certain threshold in donations to the games. It’s a blur of mind-numbing small talk and too-fake smiles with people she doesn’t know or care about. The whole time, she clings to Jon’s hand.

At one point, the Gamemakers themselves intercept the victors. She only has a vague recollection of their faces from her private training session and doesn’t immediately recognize any of them until they introduce themselves. A cold sweat breaks out across her body, and Jon tightens his grip on her hand, tension stiffening his muscles.

But the Gamemakers only mean to gush, impervious to Jon and Dany’s rigidity and dead-eyed stares. “This year’s show was the most watched yet,” a man who introduced himself as Janos Slynt gloats.

“The ratings were through the roof,” boasts another, Pycelle. “Thanks to you two.”

“Well, it couldn’t have happened without us,” Janos argues. Then he gives Dany a smug glance. “The fireballs were my idea. I thought it was particularly inspired for the Girl on Fire. Don’t you?”

Her nostrils flare, and she swallows down her anger. “Genius,” she says flatly, and the Gamemakers laugh like they’re all sharing one big joke.

Pycelle gives her an assessing look. “I must admit, the gesture with the berries was a nice touch on your end. Very poignant. You have quite the flare for the dramatic. It’s a good thing the Head Gamemaker had a sentimental streak. If it were me, I might have just let you two do it!” He chuckled gruffly. “Well, it all worked out in the end, I suppose, hm? ”

She doesn’t reply, too appalled, but Jon speaks up. “And where is the Head Gamemaker? I suppose we owe him our gratitude for that last-minute decision.”

The Gamemakers look at each other, their demeanors changing drastically. “Baelish has been...reassigned,” Pycelle says evasively. He shrugs. “After the success of these games, the king decided his talents would be, ah...better used elsewhere.”

“Pity,” Jon murmurs. “Guess we won’t get to thank him. Dany, would you like a drink?” She nods wordlessly, and with that curt dismissal, he steers her away from the Gamemakers. He snags a couple glasses of bubbly liquid from a serving tray and hands one to her. “I don’t think we’ll ever be seeing that Head Gamemaker again,” he snorts, and she frowns.

“What do you mean?”

He looks around but just shakes his head, indicating this is not the place to speak on it. He sips his drink, and she tries to do the same, but the bubbles make her head feel weird, so she stops, only holding on to the glass flute to give her hand something to do. She wants to press Jon on what he meant, but more people interrupt them to congratulate them and beg for photos with them.

“You two could be a hit here in King’s Landing,” a random man tells them. “Have you thought about starring in your own television show after this? I could put you in touch with an incredible agent.”

“No, thank you,” Jon says firmly. “We just want to see our families again.”

“Think about it!” the man calls as they walk away, but more people stop them, and it goes on like that the rest of the night.

The party goes well into the morning, and she and Jon are only whisked away just as the sun begins to rise. They’re taken back to their apartment in the Training Center, but Tyrion sends Jon off with Kinvara to make sure his outfit is fitted for the interview.

“I need to talk to him,” Dany insists, trying to follow.

“Later,” Tyrion tells her, and she grows frustrated.

“Why won’t you let me talk to him?” she demands. She’s had no time alone with him since they left the arena.

“There will be plenty of time for that after the interview, once we’re heading back to Winterfell,” Tyrion assures her. “You should sleep.”

She’s determined to talk to Jon; once she’s in her room, she waits until she’s sure everyone else has gone to bed, but when she tries to open her door, she finds it locked. Like she’s a prisoner. She supposes she is. Disheartened, she pretends to sleep until Varys comes to wake her in only a couple hours.

She eats a small meal, then joins Melisandre to be dressed for the interview in another simple gown. Once she’s ready, she’s taken to do the two-on-one interview with Oberyn. It’s in a smaller room than the previous night, no live audience, just three chairs. Jon arrives after her, and before they’re fitted with mics, he pulls her aside.

“I’m getting the distinct feeling Tyrion wants to keep us apart,” he tells her.

“He’s gotten very responsible lately, I guess,” she mutters. She’s too scared to say anything more now with others around.

Jon shakes his head. “At least, we get to go home after this. Once we’re there, he won’t be able to watch us all the time.”

His words send a shiver down her back, but she has no time to think about the implications of his promise before Oberyn’s directing them to take a seat in front of him.

He does his usual thing, ribbing them lightly to get them comfortable before hitting them with the harder questions. “So.” His brown eyes gleam. “We know from your talks in the cave that Jon’s been in love with you since you were kids.”

“Since the moment I laid eyes on her,” he affirms, and she blushes, looking at her hands in her lap.

Oberyn continues, speaking to her now, “I think I can speak for everyone when I say the real excitement for us, as the audience, was watching you fall in love with him, Daenerys. When was it that you realized you had fallen for him, too?” he prods.

She makes a squeaking sound, her face going hot. She can’t look at Jon. “Oh...I guess…It’s hard to say, exactly...”

“I’ll tell you when I knew,” Oberyn intervenes helpfully. “The moment when you shouted his name from the tree.”

Relieved at the out he’s given her, she nods eagerly. “Yes. I think that was it. Before then I just—I tried not to think about anything I was feeling. I was just trying to survive. And with Jon...everything was so confusing. Caring about him only made things worse. But I guess...in that moment, everything changed for me.”

“And why do you think that was?” Oberyn presses, gently this time.

She swallows. “Maybe because...for the first time...I realized there was a chance I could...keep him.”

Off to the side of the set, behind the cameras, Tyrion drops his head back with what looks like a huff of relief. Oberyn retrieves a handkerchief from his suit pocket and dabs at his eyes. “Forgive me,” he says, choking up. “It’s just such a beautiful thing.”

Jon’s shoulder bumps hers, and she looks at him, still blushing. “So now that you’ve got me, what do you plan to do with me?” he asks lowly.

She bites her lip. “Put you somewhere you can’t get hurt.” She catches his smile just before he kisses her, and she can hear the people off set sigh.

Oberyn continues the interview, using the pivot to talk about all the ways they did get hurt in the arena. “How’s the new leg working out, Jon?” he asks.

Dany goes stiff. “New leg?” She reaches across him to pull up his right pants leg to reveal the metal and plastic prosthesis. The blood drains from her face. “Oh, gods.”

“You didn’t know?” Oberyn asks, and she shakes her head. Jon hastily tugs his pants leg back down.

“I haven’t had a chance to tell you,” Jon says quietly. “I didn’t want you to blame yourself.”

“But it _is_ my fault,” she argues, wanting to cry. “Because of the tourniquet.”

“That tourniquet saved my life, Dany.”

“He’s right,” Oberyn offers. “Without it, he would have surely bled to death.”

She shakes her head, covering her mouth. Jon hugs her, and she buries her face in his shoulder.

Oberyn gives them a moment, and Jon does his best to comfort her, which just makes her feel worse. He’s the one who lost his leg, and he’s trying to make _her_ feel better about it. She pushes out of his arms to wipe away her tears, pulling herself together for the cameras and for his sake. Oberyn keeps talking, aiming most of his questions at Jon, who does his best to answer. His interview skills have improved since the first interview, at least.

Eventually, Oberyn has to ask her the unavoidable question.

“Dany, I have to know...the moment when you pulled out the berries...what were you thinking? What was going through your mind?”

She takes a deep breath and pauses, knowing her answer is crucial. She desperately wants to look to Tyrion for help, but she keeps her eyes trained on Oberyn. “I don’t know. I guess I just...I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.”

“Jon? Anything to add?”

He shakes his head, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles as he looks at her. “I think that goes for both of us.”

With that, Oberyn ends the interview and signs off. Behind the camera, Tyrion flashes them an approving thumbs up.

* * *

Mercifully, the interview is the last of their obligations in King’s Landing. Once they’re done with it, they’re taken directly to the train station, where they say goodbye to Melisandre and Kinvara before boarding the train. Varys is returning to Winterfell with them and Tyrion to participate in the homecoming celebrations, before once again going back to King’s Landing. In a few months, Jon and Dany will have to return as well for the Victory Tour, the halfway point between the games where they travel the country to visit every region, just so the Crown can remind everyone that their subjugation never ends.

But for now, they’re going home. Dany is excited to see her family again, but a sense of dread settles over her, too, growing heavier with every mile they draw closer to Winterfell.

After they eat lunch in the dining car, she excuses herself to her cabin to be alone for a moment. There, she allows herself to really think about home and what she’ll be returning to. To her family, to her mother and Rhaenys. To Daario. They will be the same people she left behind, but will she be the girl she was when she left Winterfell? Who will she be when she returns? She wants so badly to be the Dany they know, the Dany they love, but she’s afraid it won’t be that simple. She already feels different, changed in ways she can’t yet know or predict.

And then, of course, there’s Jon. What will things be like once they’re home? Before, their lives were so different. Now, they are victors. They share an experience that no one else will ever know or understand. Only Tyrion has some idea. But how can they translate that to Winterfell, to their everyday lives? She doesn’t know, and she’s afraid to find out.

After she changes out of her interview outfit, she returns to the dining car where everyone still lingers. Jon asks her if she’s OK, and she only shrugs, unsure how to give voice to her fears. Already there seems to be a distance growing between them, and she doesn’t know how to bridge it.

At the halfway point to Winterfell, the train stops for fuel, and Jon invites her to go for a walk with him outside while they wait. She agrees, and they walk down the tracks, hand in hand—slowly, because Jon is still getting used to his prosthetic leg. The reminder makes her withdraw into herself even more. They’re both quiet, and she doesn’t know what to say. He seems troubled, as if he can sense something is wrong, but she’s not sure if it’s on his end or hers. He stops to pick some flowers for her, and she smiles weakly. They’re actually the tops of wild onions, and they make her think of Daario and all the times they used to gather them in the woods to eat. The thought makes her feel sick and conflicted.

Like she’s been lying to someone, but she’s not sure who.

“What’s wrong?” Jon asks, seeing the look on her face.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Nothing.” She chews on her lip and feels a pressure on her chest, like the truth is going to force its way out of her, no matter what she wants. “I just…”

They hear someone approaching and turn to see Tyrion shuffling along the tracks toward them. “Is it time to go?” Jon asks, disappointed.

Their mentor nods but stops to linger for a moment. “Just a bit further. We’ll be home soon. You’ve both done a good job so far.” He looks at them a beat longer and adds, “I hope you realize it won’t end there.”

“What do you mean?” Dany asks.

“You two. You’ll be mentors now. But more than that, you’ll always be the star-crossed lovers of Winterfell. Every year from here out, the Crown will expect you two to play the part. Once a year at the games might be enough, if you’re lucky.” He shakes his head sadly. “We very rarely are, unfortunately.”

Dany’s stomach drops as the truth of his warning settles over her. Jon, however, seems a bit more perplexed. A bit more leery. “What do you mean, _play the part_?”

Instead of answering him, Tyrion looks to her with reproach. “You wanted to speak to him. Now’s your chance.” With that, he turns and leaves, waddling back to the train. The tension he leaves behind is thick.

Apprehensive, Jon turns to her. “What did he mean? What _part_?”

Confused, she shakes her head. “I don’t—I don’t understand,” she stammers. “I thought—you and he...Didn’t you two plan this?” At his blank stare, she elaborates. “The romance. When you asked to be trained alone. Wasn’t this your plan? To—to save us? To trick the Gamemakers?”

He stares at her, unblinking. “I’d hoped to give us an advantage, yes. But...I wasn’t playing a part.” His brow furrows. “Did you think I was lying? In the games? That I made that all up? That I was just playing a part?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “We didn’t get a chance to talk about anything—”

His face darkens. “Were _you_ lying in the games? And—gods, since then, too? ”

Her eyes widen. “No! I mean—I don’t think so. I don’t know.” Her hands grow damp. “I know I didn’t want you to die. I know I didn’t want to lose you. I know I would have swallowed those berries with you.”

“And the rest?” he demands. “Be honest, Dany. If nothing else, I deserve that much. There are no cameras here. No one to pretend for anymore. No one’s life hanging in the balance. Tell me straight, what do you feel for me?”

“I—” The words stick in her throat under his withering glare, and she clutches the bunches of wild onions against her chest, not sure how to answer because she’s not sure she knows herself. “I don’t know,” she says finally, and she knows it’s not enough.

His face falls, and he waits a beat for her to give him something, anything, before shaking his head. “Well. Let me know when you figure it out.” His tone is cutting and cruel, but the pain in his voice is palpable. He turns and limps away from her, back to the train.

“Jon!” she calls after him, desperate, but he doesn’t turn back. His figure distorts and blurs with her tears, and she wipes at them, frustrated. With herself, but with him, too. She wants to tell him he’s not being fair, that he’s had 11 years to figure out how he feels, to give a name to those feelings, but she’s barely had a moment to herself, away from the prying eyes of an audience, to sort out how she feels. Since her niece’s name was called at the Reaping, every minute of every day has been consumed with the desperation to survive. Trying to keep those she cares about—including him—safe. Maybe once she’s home in Winterfell, when the Crown leaves and life returns to some semblance of normal, she can sit with her own feelings and really figure them out. Then she can tell him.

* * *

When Varys calls for her, the sun nearly setting, Dany drags herself back onto the train, but Jon is nowhere to be found. She retreats to her cabin, skipping dinner. She has no appetite, anyway. She crawls into bed, hoping to sleep until they arrive in Winterfell, but sleep eludes her, and she tosses and turns for hours, remembering the wounded look on Jon’s face at her indecisiveness.

After a while, she gives up and kicks the covers off her, leaving her cabin to wander the train in her pajamas. It’s dark and empty, and she supposes most everyone has gone to bed, but she stumbles upon Tyrion in one car, slouched on a couch as he drinks from a tumbler. A decanter of brown liquid sits on a table before him, half empty. He grimaces when he sees her.

“I held up my end of the bargain. I can drink all I want to now.”

“I wasn’t going to lecture you,” she says, then decides, “I came to join you.”

Surprised, he snorts. “By all means.” When she sits down beside him, he hands her his glass, which she sips cautiously.

It burns and tastes disgusting. She coughs. “Gods, how can you stand this?”

At her face, he chuckles. “You get used to it.” When he grabs for it, she forces herself to take another sip. “Hey. If this is your first time drinking, you should take it easy.”

Swallowing the vile liquid, Dany hands the glass back to him. “You know, the games are over. You’re not obligated to keep mentoring me.”

With a scoff, he knocks back the rest of the liquor. “But you’re in such desperate need of my help, it’s hard to resist.”

As Tyrion sits forward to pour another glass, she asks, “Why only me? Why didn’t you tell Jon the things you told me? Back in King’s Landing?”

“Because he’s smart,” he says flippantly, and she scowls at him. He laughs. “Don’t pout. You’re smart, too, but sometimes you’re too dense for your own good.” Sitting back, Tyrion shrugs. “Jon didn’t need me to tell him the Crown was pissed about the berries. He knew to play it safe. But the rest...he didn’t need to play at all.”

She swallows. The liquor lingers in her mouth; the taste isn’t _so_ bad now, the longer it sits on her tongue. “Everything has been so fast. I didn’t even know how he felt about me until a couple weeks ago, and suddenly I’m supposed to have it all figured out. I don’t understand why he’s so... _angry_ with me.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never had their heart broken,” Tyrion remarks dryly. “Feelings are rarely rational.” He swigs his drink. “Anyway. I’m not the one you should be asking. You should go talk to him.”

Dany shakes her head. “I don’t think he wants to talk to me now.”

“He will.” She doesn’t have Tyrion’s confidence. Part of her does want to go to Jon, but something keeps her rooted to her spot. Her mentor gives her a censuring look. “You could do worse than Jon, you know. A lot worse.”

“I know that,” she murmurs, and suddenly the burn of tears tickles her nose. “It’s not him. It’s just…”

Tyrion’s look turns knowing. “You’re worried about the other boy back home.”

She couldn’t say it before, not to Jon. “Daario’s my friend. There’s nothing between us, not like everyone thinks, but…” She glances at Tyrion uncertainly then away again. “After my brother died...I was different. Impossible to be around. Now, I don’t have many people I can call friends. No one else, honestly. Just him.” She balls her fists in her lap, anxiously rubbing her fingers over her thumbs. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Seems to me like you’ll be hurting someone either way.”

It’s an unhelpful statement, but she knows he’s right. Despairing, she lifts her gaze to his and catches the sad, faraway look in his eyes. It dawns her then, something she never considered before.

“Is that why you’re alone?” she asks softly.

He snorts. “Thank you. For not immediately assuming my solitude had to do with my _winning_ personality.” She doesn’t tell him that was, indeed, her original assumption. He considers the drink in his hand. “Before this, I had people I loved. People I cared about. Family, friends. There was a girl, Tysha…” He trails off. He’s quiet for so long, lost in his thoughts and memories, she begins to think he won’t continue. Instead, he says abruptly, “You’re lucky, you know that? You don’t have to go through this alone, not like the rest of us.”

His admonishment stings. “I don’t feel lucky.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, just sips his drink again. In the silence, she begins to consider him in a whole new light, something akin to sympathy and genuine curiosity.

“How did you do it? How did you win your games?” she asks.

He sneers into his cup. “How do you think I did it?”

“I think you were more clever than the others,” she answers honestly, which seems to surprise him. “How did you do it, exactly?” she presses, half-expecting him to deflect with another pithy witticism or a barbed insult, but it seems the alcohol has loosened his tongue.

After a moment, he says simply, “I ran.” She frowns, but he keeps talking, “I ran as far as I could, for as long as I could. I knew enough to survive on my own. I didn’t have to worry about food. But I thought, there’s gotta be an end to this arena. It has to stop somewhere, right? I was determined to find it.”

“Did you?” she asks, and he smiles.

“In a sense, yes. I found the end of the arena, but there was no escape. All arenas are contained within a force field for just that very purpose; if you try to escape, the force field will kill you. There’s no way out.”

Now she’s even more confused. “So how…?”

Tyrion swigs his drink before continuing. “I simply outlasted most everyone else. Let them kill each other. I was too far away to be an issue. Until it was just me and the tribute from the Crownlands. Gregor. Big beast of a guy. He was forced to come find me, and find me he did. Of course, I had no chance against someone like that. Not physically, anyway. When he finally found me, he took one look at me and laughed. Laughed so hard and for so long, I’d kind of thought he’d give himself a stroke. Naturally, he thought he had it in the bag. His weapon of choice was an ax, and he spent a few minutes, taunting me, playing to the audience. He wanted to show off. You know how the Careers are. So, I egged him on. Said there was no way he could hit me with that ax from where he stood.” Tyrion shrugs. “He wanted to prove me wrong, so when he threw the ax at me like I was a bullseye, I jumped out of the way. The ax bounced off the force field and lodged right into his head. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.”

Dany gapes at him, and he touches his nose reflexively. “I wasn’t quite fast enough, unfortunately. Lost the tip of my nose. That ax was surprisingly sharp.”

“Oh,” she says faintly, taking in his profile. “I just figured—”

“Birth defect?” he says wryly. “Why not, right? Fits the rest of me, I suppose. The Crown easily could have fixed it, but, well, as you can imagine, the king didn’t much like what I’d done, how I’d won. That’s not how these games are supposed to work, you see.”

“But...they fixed me,” she points out.

Tyrion scoffs into his drink. “You’re not a dwarf. Everyone expects me to be ugly.” He shrugs. “With me, it was a bit more personal for the king.”

She doesn’t understand. “How so?”

Amused, he swirls the brown liquor around. “Have you ever heard the story about the king’s third child?”

She blinks. “He has twins. Prince Jaime and Princess Cersei.”

Tyrion nods. “King Tywin is obsessed with perfection, as you might have noticed. His first two children were beautiful. Perfect in every way. So when the queen became pregnant again, everyone assumed the child would be just like the first two. Instead, he was born a hideous, deformed little thing. A disgrace to the king and the Lannister name.”

Her mouth parts in astonishment as understanding dawns on her. “You…?”

Tyrion keeps talking, like he didn’t hear her. “Naturally, the king wanted to kill the ugly thing, but the queen cried and pleaded with him. So, as a kindness to his wife, he told the world the child had been a stillborn and had it disposed of, somewhere far away from King’s Landing, so no one would ever know what this child was. He was so sure the dumb, grotesque creature would die in the wasteland that was the North. Except a kind soul from Wintertown found him and took him in, raised him as her own.

“Despite his looks, this pitiful creature proved to be quite resilient and smart. Happy, by all accounts. Eventually, when the king found out that his son had survived, he was irate. The very existence of this child was an affront to him, an insult to his authority, his image. But he couldn’t have this child killed, not outright. It would draw too much attention, raise too many questions.”

“So...he rigged the Reaping to put you in the games?” she guesses correctly, stunned.

With a twisted smile, Tyrion taps the end of his blunt nose. “Bingo. Surely, _this_ time he would be more successful in killing me.” He chuckles darkly. “Except, of course, I won, against all odds. And I humiliated him yet again. But, unfortunately for him, once I was a victor, I became nearly untouchable.” His smile slips. “The people I loved, however, were not.”

“You mean…” Icy fear slithers down her spine. “Will he hurt my family, then?”

“He could,” Tyrion answers bluntly. “If you don’t play the games the way he wants you to.” He smiles humorlessly and lifts his glass to her. "We all have our part to play, even your beloved town drunk."

They fall silent, Tyrion’s head resting on the back of the couch. After a moment, Dany plucks the glass from his hands and swallows the rest of it, wincing through the burn. He says nothing as she hands the empty tumbler back to him and stands from the couch. The car spins slightly, and she leaves him behind. She walks through the cars, her head feeling light, like it’s floating above her shoulders; she stumbles once and catches herself on the wall.

Gods, is this what Tyrion feels like all the time? How does he stand it?

Determined, she finds herself outside Jon’s cabin and doesn’t hesitate to knock. She waits, then knocks again, growing impatient; she’s about to knock a fourth time when the door finally slides open. At the sight of her, Jon immediately scowls.

“I don’t wanna see you right now,” he growls, hitting the panel to shut the door. Without thinking, Dany sticks her foot out to prevent the door from fully closing, but it smashes her bare foot in the doorway. She cries out, and with a gasp, Jon hits the button again, shoving the door aside when it’s too slow to respond to his command. “Seven hells, Dany!” Grimacing in pain, she slumps against the doorway. “What the hell were you thinking?” he snaps at her, red-faced and worried.

“I just wanted to talk to you,” she blubbers, going to take a step into his room but faltering when a stab of pain lances through her foot.

He catches her before she can fall, scooping her into his arms. He staggers slightly under her weight, probably because of his prosthetic leg. “Next time, just say that instead of hurting yourself,” he grits out, taking her to his bed with halting steps.

“You’re the one who shut the door on me,” she protests as he puts her down. It’s hard not to stare at his metal foot.

“I didn’t know you were going to put your foot in a closing door!” he says, exasperated, standing up straight and pushing the hair off his forehead. He glowers at her. “Are you some kind of masochist or something?”

She just might be, coming here to see him, even knowing he’s mad at her. “Jon, please. Can we talk?” She tries to shift on the bed and hisses, looking pitifully at her foot. It’s already turning red. With an aggrieved sigh, Jon turns away, disappearing into the bathroom. The cabin door finally shuts on its own, affording them some privacy. He returns with a damp washcloth and stops to rummage through an ice bucket on his table, scooping some ice cubes onto the washcloth. He twists it into a makeshift ice pack then sits down beside her, arranging it over her injured foot. She inhales sharply at the chill, but after a second, it starts to feel better, cooling her overheated skin. She touches her warm cheeks, tries to shake her head clear of the alcohol.

“Jon—”

He interrupts her, “I don’t want to talk about before.”

“Well, I do, so shut up,” she snaps at him, and he rears back slightly. She sighs. “Sorry. I had a drink with Tyrion.”

Jon huffs. “You two share any more secrets without me?” he grumbles childishly.

“Yes, actually.” Her bluntness surprises him, again. “But they’re not secrets, not really. Not from you.” She finds herself blurting out, “Did you know Tyrion is King Tywin’s secret third child?”

He blinks at her. “Exactly, how much did you have to drink?”

She shakes her head. “Probably too much. But that’s not the point. Tyrion told me himself. The king hates him because of what he is, but the queen wouldn’t let him kill him, so King Tywin left him in the North to die. But he didn’t, so then he tried to have him killed in the games, but Tyrion outsmarted him again, and now the king hates him even more.”

“Dany, you’re not making any sense—”

She grabs his hand suddenly, cutting him off. “He can hurt us, Jon. And everyone we love. If we don’t do what he wants.” She looks at him, imploring. “That’s what Tyrion was trying to tell us.”

His mouth thins. “I know that.”

She widens her eyes at him, blinking back tears. “Then don’t shut me out, _please_. Not now. I can’t—I can’t do this without you, Jon.”

His expression turns conflicted. “I don’t—I don’t want it like _this_ , with you scared and indebted, a fucking sword hanging over both our heads.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter what you want because you can’t have it any other way now!” she retorts, irritated by his mulishness. “Neither of us can! And that’s not _my_ fault, I’m not the one who waited till the games to tell the other how I felt!”

He clamps his mouth shut, face turning red again, but then he’s angry, too. “Sorry I couldn’t predict the future, Dany. Sorry I couldn’t imagine my hand would be forced by both of us being reaped at the same time! I didn’t think I had a chance in hell with you, anyway!”

“Of course, you did, you idiot!” she yells, and that seems to take the wind out of his sails completely. Her words ring in the quiet of his cabin, and Dany thinks she might feel more embarrassment at her behavior, if it weren’t for the alcohol currently dulling her inhibitions.

“Really?” he finally asks, skeptical and unsure.

Her pulse flutters nervously, and she licks her lips. “Yes. I wanted to talk to you, ever since the bread—”

He interrupts with a scoffing sneer. “Not the fucking bread again, Dany—”

She becomes annoyed. “Yes, _the fucking bread_ , Jon. You fell in love with me because of one stupid moment when we were 5 years old! Why is my moment any less valid?”

He stares at her, and it takes a moment for the full weight of what she said to register with her. Her cheeks burn hot, and she averts her eyes, unable to bear the weight of his intense gaze. “I mean—” she stumbles over her words, embarrassed. She presses a hand to her face. “Gods, I’m sorry. I can’t do or say any of this right—”

“Stop.” He touches her hand on her face, and she lowers it to look at him. “Just...don’t say anymore. OK? Let’s not ruin this by yelling at each other again.” He takes a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks as he blows it out. “I think...I think we’re both a bit hotheaded and lash out when we’re hurt.” Silently, she agrees with him but manages to hold her tongue. With a weary sigh, he pushes his hair off his forehead again. “Gods. I’m so tired, Dany.”

“Me too,” she mumbles.

“How’s your foot?” he asks, gingerly shifting the ice pack to drape over the arch of her foot.

“S’okay. Hurts, kinda. Thank you for the ice.”

“Do you want me to carry you back to your room?” he offers, and she hesitates, her face filling with heat again. But she answers him honestly.

“No. I don’t want to go back to my room.” At his closed-mouth look, she asks, “Can I stay here tonight? With you?”

He looks like he’s blushing, too. “Are you sure?”

It seems in bad taste to say out loud that she misses the days in the cave, sleeping beside him, so she just nods. He takes the ice pack from her foot and leans over the side of the bed to place it on the floor, then he shifts around to lie back against the pillows. Hesitant, Dany lies down beside him. She can feel the tension in his body, how rigidly he holds himself, and after a moment, she curls against his side, resting her cheek on his chest. Somehow, he stiffens underneath her even more, but then, just as quickly, he relaxes, bringing his arm up around her shoulders.

She relaxes, too, her eyes suddenly heavy. It occurs to her, then, that she hasn’t slept since the games, not without the aid of drugs, a chemically induced sleep. Before then, it was Jon’s arms that did the trick. Now, she can feel them weaving the same magic as they did then.

“Jon?” she asks, slurring sleepily. For this brief moment in time, she feels oddly at ease.

His chest rumbles with his quiet, “Hm?”

“When we get back home, don’t...don’t pull away, OK?” At his silence, she continues, “Whatever happens, we do it together. Like in the games. Don’t let go of me. Promise me.”

She’s worried that he won’t speak, or that she’ll fall asleep before he finally does, but his arm tightens around her. When he replies, his lips move against the top of her head. “You don’t have to worry,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. (Also, highly recommend reading the books it's based on, it's worth it, I promise.) Thank you again for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> The full story is already written so I will update this regularly. I promise you won't have to wait long between updates.


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